

Class . V ■ ’'J 

Book . 1.7.93 T 

Cojjyright N° 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



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THE PLOTTING OF 
FRANCES WARE 



THE PLOTTING OF 
FRANCES WARE 


BY 

JAMES LOCKE 

Author of “The Stem of the Crimson Dahlia” 



NEW YORK 

MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY 

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Copyright, 1909, by 
MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY 

All Rights Reserved 
Published, April, 1909 



^LIBRARY of CONGHtSsj 

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THE PLOTTING OF 
FRANCES WARE 









The Plotting of Frances Ware 


CHAPTER I 

T HE thing was done. The first step in his 
plan, long meditated upon, had at last 
been taken. For a few seconds Count 
Michael Zembec crouched motionless on the floor, 
suppressing with all his strength the noise of his 
heavy breathing. Then he arose from his knees 
and, stepping cautiously over the still, black object 
at his feet, thrust his face against the window bars. 

Outside he saw a wall of darkness, black and 
impenetrable; and above it, cutting its upper edge 
into fantastic, ghostly figures, the faintly opal- 
escent sky that foretells the rising moon. Minute 
after minute he stood there, gazing out at that 
blackness which meant freedom. The moon rose. 
Here and there he caught its reddish gleam 
through the screen of trees, its fainter reflection 
on dew-coated leaves. Once, as the train jolted 
through the forest, an open space flashed by, and 
the moon struck full in his face. 


2 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

Zembec shrank back with an oath, stifled before 
its full utterance, and cast a desperate, frightened 
glance toward the other end of the car. He had 
not thought of that risk; and cursed the moon 
beneath his breath. But the remaining guard was 
sleeping peacefully, and had neither seen nor 
heard. Thereafter, nevertheless, the convict kept 
well away from the window, though he could not 
leave it with his eye. He braced himself as best 
he could against the swaying of the train and 
waited. Five minutes — ten minutes — a half hour 
— the strain was becoming unbearable. And still 
the unending black wall, now fringed with silver 
light, was rushing by, and still the train played its 
monotone upon the poorly laid Siberian rails. 

There came a clack, a sudden lurch, and he was 
nearly thrown from his feet. To save himself, he 
crouched; and remained crouching. He knew 
that they had passed a switch, as he had calculated 
they would do long before this, and breathlessly 
awaited the result. Barely perceptibly the engine 
was slowing down. Water? Now was his time, 
or never, — before that other guard whom he did 
not dare reach was awakened by the cessation of 
the motion. He bent down and groped at the 
dark object, then rose and softly and stealthily 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 3 

worked his way to the door, softly and stealthily 
found and turned its lock and, standing so as to 
shut off all the moonlight possible, gently slid it 
open. 

For one instant he breathed the cold, free air. 
Then he drew back to the black object and, half 
dragging, half carrying, worked it to the door and 
pushed it out to the ground beneath. It struck 
heavily, rolled over once or twice, and lay motion- 
less. Zembec noted that it had fallen clear. He 
swung himself outside and, clinging to the narrow 
step, silently closed the door behind him. With 
one hand on the guard-rail, he let his feet touch 
the ground; ran a few steps, and released his hold. 
The next instant he was lying flat on his face, par- 
allel with the track, almost within touch of the 
wheels. 

The train and its shadow passed beyond him. 
Still he remained motionless. He watched its 
lights as they gradually came to a standstill in the 
distance and, after an eternity, moved again, again 
grew smaller, and disappeared; watched a lantern 
swinging in the hands of a tank-tender, until it, 
too, disappeared. Then he rose to his feet, and 
plunged into the brush. 

With the first step from the railroad bed he 


4 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

sank to his knees in icy bog. He shivered, and 
struggled back. While hesitating, a last precau- 
tion occurred to him. He returned to the form 
huddled next the tracks and, taking it in his arms, 
assayed the swamp once more. A hundred yards 
into the thicket he beat his way with his burden; 
then, laying it down, trampled and stamped it into 
the black ooze. It was almost covered now. He 
placed his foot on the white, upturned face and 
slowly pressed, watching the thick mud settle 
against the features. The swamp resumed its 
level. He laughed. They would search for two 
fugitives together now, an escaped prisoner and 
an escaped guard. They would not look for one 
alone, nor know where the pair had left the train. 

Michael Zembec, Count in Poland, conspirator, 
enemy to Russia, was free. 

He gave an hysterical laugh; then a spirit of 
wanton recklessness seized him and, with arms ex- 
tended toward the forest branches above, he broke 
into that grand forbidden hymn of his country. 

Michael Zembec was free. Sodden, his tall fig- 
ure bent and weakened by imprisonment and clad 
in prison garb which every soul that he might meet 
would know; his handsome black eyes dark-cir- 
cled, his heavy jaw concealed by uncouth bristles, 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 5 

his convict’s head half-shaven, he was free. To 
the north, the ice-fields; to the east, Tomsk, 
Irkutsk, and the distributing stations, the chain- 
gangs to which he had been condemned; to the 
west, Russia and the secret service men who would 
look to send him there again. But still he was 
free, free to go south, where freedom might be 
found. And southward lay — three hundred miles 
of forest, three hundred more of steppe, and still 
three hundred more of desolate, thirsty desert. 
And then again Russia! But here only a Russia 
dominant over turbulent Mohammedan tribes, 
ever ready for revolt, and therefore ever ready to 
shelter a fugitive enemy of their masters. 

Zembec bent over and lathered his head with 
mud. Then, with the knife taken from the body 
of the dead guard, he hacked and scraped and 
sawed until the unshaven half of his crown was 
smooth. He wiped the black streams from his 
eyes, cleaned the knife upon his trouser leg, and, 
without another backward look, strode resolutely 
toward the South. 


CHAPTER II 


HAT was in May. One night a full year 



later the fugitive, weary, footsore, thirsty, 


was struggling through the Trans-Caspian 
desert. He had been so struggling for week after 
week; traveling at night, spending his days in the 
hollows of the sand-dunes, making always his way 
southwest; tracing the outlines of the zone of hab- 
ited lands with his footprints, but venturing within 
it only at dead of night and when driven by need 
of water or forage to do so. 

Just now Zembec was reaching the end of his 
nightly distance, and in the east the sky was mel- 
lowing. The sand-dunes began to show gray, to 
whiten. He threw himself down between two 
billows, drank sparingly from a leather bottle 
which was slung at his waist, rested his head upon 
an outstretched arm; and slept. 

Zembec himself could not have told the details 
of that year’s wanderings. The remembrance of 
his passage through the Siberian forest staid with 
him only as the fragmentary remembrance of a 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 7 

bad dream. In the steppes he had been found, in 
the last stages of starvation, by some nomad 
Kirghiz shepherds, who had cared for him until 
his strength was recruited; and then, for his fur- 
ther keep, he had himself turned shepherd, tending 
their flocks as a Kirghiz might. But months had 
even then gone by. The August sun was burning 
up the pasturage; and the Kirghiz turned their 
camels’ heads toward the mountain valleys in the 
southeast. Zembec followed them, far out of his 
course ; and in one of the bullock-hide tents of their 
winter village he spent the nights of autumn, and 
saw the New Year come. 

He could have staid longer in such wild safety 
had he so wished. But the recklessness of the 
Polish race was upon him here as it had been in 
Europe. He was content with no passive free- 
dom, the simple power to come and go. Better 
the chain-gang than the absence of that world to 
which he could proclaim his freedom ! And he 
had unfinished work to do in Europe. 

From some renegade Russian who had tried 
them all he learned the difficulties of the roads 
into China, into India, into Afghanistan, the coun- 
tries nearest him. Persia was his hope. Russian 
interests were dominant there — in Khorassan at 


8 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

least — and the frontier watches might accordingly 
be more lax. So, his prison clothes discarded, 
clad in Kirghiz khalat and round, fur-lined Kir- 
ghiz cap, he had set out in the dead of winter to 
skirt the edge of the oases into the Trans-Caspian 
regions and thence to make his way to the shelter- 
ing wing of the Persian Shah. It was a fearful 
journey of eight hundred miles or more. The 
Kirghiz shepherds had said he could not do it. 
Their condemnation of his plan made its fulfill- 
ment only the more desirable to him. He obsti- 
nately bade them good-bye and went his way, fac- 
ing the difficulties without hesitation, but seeing 
only one at a time; always full of hope, but sul- 
lenly cursing each successive hazard, as designed 
especially to thwart his will. 

And to-night the journey was almost at an end. 
He had done the impossible; crossing the Jaxartes 
on the ice, the Oxus in a stolen boat; going miles 
out of his way to forage and pilfer when he could, 
hungering and thirsting when he could not. He 
had skulked through the fever-haunted marshes of 
Merv; and with a sense of joy and relief had 
emerged from them into the desert once more. 
Thenceforward his path was straight and, mindful 
of his Kirghiz schooling, he had kept his direction 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 9 

well; obliquely down one sand-dune, obliquely up 
and over the next, always at the same angle with 
the long lines of sand that ran away into the north. 
Always at the same angle ! Hundreds, thousands, 
of those brown, saxsaul-capped billows he had 
crossed. The day before, on awaking, he had 
seen from the top of one of them the thin green 
strip of the Achal oasis, and above it the faintly 
black line of mountains half Persian. And he 
pictured, if he did not see, a narrow valley run- 
ning up them and, at its head, two little guard- 
houses, with one or two soldiers in each. Those 
soldiers, weak and puny in his strong hands, were 
all that stood between him and freedom. 

He had done ten miles this night. With day- 
light he would be able to see that valley. And so 
Zembec slept, though restlessly. 

It was ten o’clock when he awoke. The glare 
of the sun was hurting his eyes. He moistened 
his parched lips with water and crawled to the 
crest of the dune. 

Behind him, and on both sides, lay only desert; 
brown, unending, mysterious billows of sand, bare 
save for the straggling gray saxsaul bush that here 
and there capped their tops ; the lines of those near- 
est clear-cut, but softened and blurred in the more 


io PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 


distant, by the brown haze that swallowed the 
horizon and by the vibrating, flickering curls of 
heat. To the southwest, still far off, lay the black 
mountain line of which he had dreamed; snow- 
capped, and marked with the brown tracery of 
torrential streams ; and beneath them the fields and 
pastures of the foothills, shining green in the sun. 
In the middle distance, less than a mile away, the 
dunes were curiously bent and deflected and 
broken, their rough symmetry destroyed like that 
of waves running between rocks. The sand was 
banked up into a series of three great walls, like 
the sides of a broken rectangle; and within the 
space thus enclosed were cones and squares, high 
ones and low, and irregular ridges crossed and 
paralleled, in indiscriminate profusion; and all, 
save for their irregularity, part and parcel of the 
brown desert. 

Zembec knew what the sight betokened. He 
had seen many such in his wanderings along the 
edge of the Turkestan oases. A town gone wrong 
— fifty — a hundred — a thousand years ago; stung 
by war or pestilence, or, more fatal than either, by 
the drying of its wells; and abandoned, from house 
of mud to inlaid mosque, to the devouring fury of 
the Sand Gods. 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 1 1 

But in all this Zembec had little interest, for it 
was no unfamiliar sight. What he could not un- 
derstand was the fact that thirty or forty Turko- 
mans, armed with spade and shovel, were swarm- 
ing about one of the larger squares; and that just 
outside the wall nearest him, five white tents were 
pitched. He was greatly puzzled, for no sign of 
a caravan road was near. 

Remembering the risk he was running in stand- 
ing there in full view, he shrank back until only 
his head projected above the dune’s summit. 
Then, suddenly, in a rush of overwhelming fear, 
he threw himself flat upon the ground. For 
directly opposite him, under the steep edge 
of the dune on which he was standing and not 
twenty feet away, he had caught sight of two 
human beings, two Europeans, sitting on the 
sand. 

He dared not retreat, for fear the movement 
would bring the overhanging edge of the dune 
down on their shoulders. Even the fall of a little 
sand might attract their attention. So he waited, 
digging his fingers into the loose soil, burying his 
face in it, trembling in every fiber of his body; 
every nerve bent upon escape. 


12 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

Professor Ware rose to his feet and brushed 
the sand from his clothes. 

“ I hardly know what to do about it, Frances,” 
he said, as he helped his companion rise. “ The 
ruins are certainly not what we were looking for; 
and at the same time it may be worth our while 
to go on. Those inscriptions we found yesterday 
are certainly Buddhistic, and it’s a new region for 
such things — a thousand miles too far to the 
west.” 

“ Then why not take what you get? ” returned 
the girl, promptly. “ I know nothing about such 
things, of course, and I’m only here to be with 
you. So we’ll try somewhere else if you wish. 
But ” 

With a sudden cry of “ English ! English, by 
God ! ” a cloud of sand descended from above 
them, and from it emerged the tall, emaciated 
figure of a man, clad in ragged Kirghiz robe and 
cap. Zembec took one short step toward them, 
held out his hands in silent appeal, and fell faint- 
ing at their feet. 

When the fugitive came to himself, he was lying 
there in the sand where he had fallen, and his 
head was resting in the strange man’s lap. The 
woman was bending over him, bathing his fore- 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 13 

head with a handkerchief dipped in the water from 
his own precious bottle. Through his half-closed 
eyes he saw that she was beautiful; and he closed 
them again. In his year of wandering he had for- 
gotten that such treatment as this could be. Under 
the touch of the soft hand the terror which had 
haunted him during all that long year was dis- 
sipated. He lay very quiet, hardly breathing, not 
daring to look again, lest the vision of that bright 
hair, of the broad, womanly brow and the thought- 
ful, deep-set, clear blue eyes, should disappear. 
Very quiet indeed he lay, once more at peace. He 
felt the grasp of firm, slender fingers upon his 
pulse and himself counted the throbbing of his 
blood against them. 

“ The man is burning up with fever,” he heard 
her whisper. 

“ Yes, I imagine so,” the man’s voice returned. 
“ We must get him over to the men’s quarters, and 
have a doctor see him.” 

With that the old terror came back. Zembec 
struggled to rise. He turned trembling and ap- 
pealingly, not to the man but to the woman. 
“No, no!” he cried. “Not a doctor! Not a 
Russian doctor! No, you must not. I am well. 
I will go.” 


i 4 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

He tried to get to his feet, but Ware held 
him. 

“ You will do nothing of the kind,” he ordered. 
“ Why won’t you have a Russian doctor? ” 

Zembec closed his mouth tight. But with the 
collapse of his strength his power to think had de- 
parted. He knew only that, having once dared to 
trust, he must go on trusting. Still with mad eyes 
fixed upon Miss Ware, but without speaking, he 
waved his hand weakly toward the north. 

“Khiva? The Oxus marshes?” asked the 
professor. 

“ No,” in a whisper. “ Beyond.” 

“ Not— not Siberia?” 

“ Yes.” And with the issuing of the dread ad- 
mission from his lips came the strength and fierce- 
ness of semi-delirious fright. He tore himself 
loose, and bounded to his feet. 

“ Yes. From Siberia. From Siberia, here,” he 
cried. “Do you understand?” He was talking 
to the man now, a beast ready to slay. His hand 
was on the knife concealed under his long robe. 
“ Through forest and steppe and desert, here. 
From a convict train! From a chain-gang! 
And I want no doctors about. Do you under- 
stand?” 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 1 5 

Ware walked steadily over to him and laid a 
quiet hand upon his arm. 

“ Political? ” he asked, gently. 

Zembec never dared tell Frances Ware how 
near she and her brother had been to death that 
moment. A stern word, or a firmer grasp of 
Ware’s hand, would have sufficed to bring it upon 
them. But Ware had chosen the one saving 
course. The involuntary tone of sympathy in his 
voice moved the fugitive. The hand fell from 
the knife-hilt, the brutal, challenging glare faded 
from his eyes. As quickly as he had been aroused 
he again became the suppliant, weak and fevered, 
unable to save himself. 

He bent his head and begged. 

“Yes; political. For no crime. You will not 
give me up? ” 

Ware remained kind, but non-committal. 

“Tell us about it,” he said, gently. “No; lie 
down first. Here, take this for a pillow.” 

He slipped his coat off and rolled it up. And 
Michael Zembec, lying there on the'sand, within 
sight of the frontier he had struggled for a year 
to reach, entrusted his life to two strangers. He 
told his story into the pitying eyes of the woman, 
who throughout its telling sat screening his face 


1 6 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

from the hot sun and bathing now and then the 
flushed cheeks and brow. 

The story, even as he told it, was not entirely 
true, and he omitted much. In his own eyes, 
Michael Zembec was neither traitor nor criminal. 
He simply denied Russia; rejected her, with such 
means and by such methods as came to him. Nev- 
ertheless there were many, very many, details in his 
past life which he knew could well lie concealed; 
the telling of which might awaken feelings other 
than those of sympathy in the breast of this woman 
who was unfamiliar with the motives which had 
actuated him. And, backed by the history of Rus- 
sia and still more by the exaggerated reports of 
her repressive measures which run current in 
America, his tale entered credulous ears. Even 
in his fever he could see that pity and leniency and 
understanding gained in the woman’s face and 
that he was making sure of safety. 

He placed one hand over her own as she stroked 
back his hair, and held it against his eyes. 

“ Ah, Mademoiselle,” he pleaded, “ you do not 
know what it is to live a Polish subject of the 
Czar; to be always spied upon, always hated and 
driven. Let one of us attain influence, as I did, 
and what becomes of him? He is taken, as I was, 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 17 

from his bed at night; without charge, without 
hope of trial. He is sent to Petersburg, thrust 
into the dungeons of the Peterhof, without hope 
of rescue, to fight the water rats of the Neva. 
And then, on a day, he is taken forth and loaded, 
with thieves, ravishers, murderers, into a barred 
convict car and sent Oh, God! Mademoi- 

selle, do you think man can stand it? That I 
would go back there? You will not give me up; 
send me back? Perhaps it would be to solitary 
confinement now. And only because I loved my 
country, my language, my religion, and had the 
strength to say so. You will not give me up! 
You will help me across the frontier. Oh, Made- 
moiselle, you will! You will! Thank God, you 
will; I know it ! ” 

He was on his knees now, his white face bent 
low, his hands clutching at the edge of her skirt. 

Frances Ware, slow though she was to weep, 
felt the tears start to her eyes. With a womanly 
gesture of sympathy she stooped and took his 
hands firmly in her own and raised him to his feet. 

“ Of course we shall not give you up,” she an- 
swered, soothingly. “ What we can do I do not 
know. But time will decide that. First of all we 
must get you well and strong. You poor man, 


1 8 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

you should be in bed this instant. We must take 
you to our quarters.” 

Zembec shrank back with a frightened glance 
at the open ground before the tents, lying in plain 
view of the workmen. 

“ No, no ! not yet,” he muttered, feverishly. 
“ Not until night. I must stay here. They 
would see me from yonder ” — he waved his hand 
toward the excavations — “ and might tell. Let 
me wait — beyond the sand-dunes there. The 
Blessed Virgin knows, Mademoiselle,” he added, 
piteously, “ I have already waited long.” 

After some discussion it was finally so ar- 
ranged. Zembec was made as comfortable as a 
bed of sand and a glaring sun would permit. At 
the suggestion of his sister, Ware cut some 
branches of saxsaul and, sticking their ends into 
the sand, spread his coat over their tops to form 
a shelter for the sick man’s head. Her own jacket 
went to serve as a pillow; and, with the promise 
that fresh water and food would soon be brought 
him, the fugitive was left to lie behind the dune 
until nightfall. 


CHAPTER III 


T HE ensuing week was an anxious one for 
Frances Ware. Zembec’s fever, once it 
had gained the upper hand over his 
determination, became violent. Even on that first 
night, when they came to carry him to better quar- 
ters, they found him semi-delirious. Ware had 
made only one condition with his sister concerning 
the fugitive’s treatment; that no assistance should 
be rendered him in any actual attempt to escape. 
The archeologist had encountered too many dif- 
ficulties in securing from Russia the permit to 
carry on his excavations for him lightly to risk the 
chance of its revocation. 

“ The demands of common humanity must of 
course be met,” he told her; “but there is no 
earthly reason why we should do anything beyond 
that. I owe it to myself and to my sponsors in 
America not to compromise this work by interfer- 
ing with the police. Besides, what guarantee have 
we that the man is speaking the truth? He may 
be anything — a forger, a nihilist, a common mur- 
19 


20 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

derer, for all we know. Convicts do not blurt out 
the truth of their past to the first comer, even when 
they are trying to escape from Siberia.” 

“ But this poor man speaks English,” Frances 
argued, rather inconsequently. 

“ So might any Russian or Polish servant who 
had cut his master’s throat. No, Frances, we 
must not go beyond giving him temporary shelter. 
He can stay with us as long as he likes, within 
reasonable limits, and we will keep his presence 
in the camp as much a secret as possible. I’ll 
brave the fellow’s criminal instincts and have a cot 
put up for him in my tent, and the trusty Joseph 
will look after him without asking questions. I 
can move my desk into the supply tent. At the 
most it will be for only three or four days.” 

Frances, afire with sympathy for her new 
charge, shut her lips tightly together. 

But Ware had reckoned without his host. The 
marsh fever of Trans-Caspia, though in itself 
short-lived, is exhausting in its effects. At the end 
of those “ three or four days ” Zembec, far from 
taking his departure, was still in bed, unable to 
stand on his feet and doomed apparently to a long 
period of convalesence. Ware was disappointed, 
but accepted the inevitable. 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 21 

Their plans for secrecy, at any rate, he con- 
gratulated himself, were working nicely. Joseph, 
the camp’s factotum, had shouldered his new 
duties without question. He was perhaps too in- 
telligent a servant to fail to recognize that the in- 
valid whom his masters were so carefully guard- 
ing was no ordinary waif of the desert. But he was 
also discreet and showed neither Ware nor Zembec 
himself any sign of undue curiosity. And he was 
apparently obeying Ware’s carefully suggested 
hint not to talk to the remaining servants. The 
cook and his assistants gave no indication that 
they knew the camp had received an addition to 
the number of its inhabitants. A little gruel 
added to the list of daily dishes — they prepared it 
and went their way with the stoicism and phlegm 
of the unthinking Russian peasant. 

So life easily adjusted itself to the new condi- 
tions. The camp had few visitors. Once a week 
or so some Russian official would ride over from 
the oasis to pay his respects, but never without an- 
ticipating his visit by a word at the hand of some 
native messenger. The Turkoman workmen, 
whose portable village of tents was pitched at the 
back of the mounds, never came to their chief’s 
quarters at all ; and after one or two days of dis- 


22 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

turbed feelings, Ware found that Zembec’s pres- 
ence was less of a burden and danger than he had 
expected. 

To Frances it was almost a boon. She had 
come to Turkestan because her brother had come 
and she and her brother were inseparable. But 
archeology was only of second-hand interest to 
her, and during the past two months time had 
hung more heavily on her hands than she would 
have admitted to be the case. The brown haze of 
the sand-dunes had long since lost its delicacy and 
mystery. The Turkomans had become an old 
story. The fascination with which she had at 
first studied their unfamiliar life had given place 
to the inevitable realization that they were only 
very unkempt and filthy savages, into whose tents 
it was unhygienic to wander. And archeology 
and sand-dunes and Turkomans were all that her 
brother and the desert could offer her. 

Any break at all in the monotony of her days 
would thus have been welcome. But the interest 
awakened by Zembec’s coming and sickness made 
more than an ordinary break. It called into play 
all her instincts of sympathy, charity, maternity; 
and inevitably, she felt also the romantic elements 
in the situation, as any true woman would. 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 23 

She assumed full charge of the invalid; watch- 
ing him, nursing him; urging him toward sleep 
when he was restless, giving him encouragement 
and hope when he was inclined to talk, shutting 
her burning ears to the ravings of his delirious 
moments. For the first four days she allowed 
herself only the shortest intervals of rest; spend- 
ing hour after hour at the patient’s bedside. In 
those four days he became her property. 

She left him one day staring with hot eyes at the 
white walls of the tent, muttering string after 
string of unintelligible curses and threats against 
his enemies, in the Polish tongue. She was absent 
a bare half hour. But when she returned, Zembec 
was sleeping quietly. His breathing was faint, 
but regular. The hectic, purplish flush she had 
seen so long had disappeared. Frances tiptoed to 
the bed and laid her hand upon the man’s fore- 
head. It was cool and moist. She silently left 
the tent; and, once outside in the clear air, the 
reaction came. She reached her own quarters with 
difficulty and, all a-tremble, threw herself, face 
downward, upon the couch, burying her head in 
her arms. For the first time she realized what 
her task had been; that, without knowledge of 
medicine, unable to seek help, she had been hold- 


24 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

mg for days the knife-edge upon which was swing- 
ing to and fro the balance of a man’s life and 
death. 

The crisis once passed, Zembec’s progress to- 
ward recovery, however slow, was steady. In the 
first days he was content to lie silent, drinking in 
this new-found peace which was his. Night 
watches were no longer necessary; but Frances con- 
tinued to give him all the hours of light; and she 
became the Pole’s divinity. Hour after hour he 
would lie without speaking, but with his eyes im- 
mutably fixed upon her figure as she sat by his bed- 
side or quietly moved about the tent. 

And with his new surroundings Zembec’s per- 
sonality itself seemed changed. He was no longer 
the savage, the hunted beast, whom she had found 
in the desert. The dread, the suspicion, the 
cruelty, had left his eye. In their place had come 
contentment; and contentment made the whole 
man over. He became gentle, thoughtful; and 
though, for the time being at least, he rarely spoke, 
what little he did say showed him the man of 
breeding that he claimed to be. His courtesy 
partook of the exaggerated ceremonial of conti- 
nental society. When Frances came into the tent 
and gave him her hand the first morning after the 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 25 

fever broke, he raised her fingers to his lips. She 
drew them away quickly, with a laugh of con- 
fusion. But the next day Zembec did it again, 
just as unconsciously, and again the next. It soon 
became a form of greeting the omission of which 
she would have noticed and regretted. 

Some days elapsed, nevertheless, before he be- 
came talkative. But Frances then found in him 
none of the reserve which one might have looked 
for in a plotter against monarchies. They had 
many a long chat together, exchanging confidences 
freely. It warmed the woman’s heart to hear his 
generous, careless laugh and to feel that its note 
was but the echo of the trust he placed in her own 
good faith. But it troubled her a little, too; for 
her brother had not altered his determination, and 
Zembec’s gain in strength was every day bringing 
him nearer the moment when he must be told to 
go his way unaided. 

Perhaps as much because she dreaded facing 
this question of his future as for any other reason, 
Frances strove to keep her conversations with him 
free from political subjects. But what is in a man 
will out. It was difficult to avoid all reference to 
Russia, so long as they were in Russian territory. 
Frances was appalled to see the hatred which the 


26 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

simple mention of the word would bring into 
Zembec’s eyes. Only once in the early days of his 
convalescence, however, did he refer to the subject 
of his escape. She had just propped him up in 
bed, for the first time. 

“ Ah, Mademoiselle,” he cried, with a jolly 
laugh, “ I am growing strong again. We must 
soon begin to plan for my leaving; must we not? ” 

“ Hush ! ” she answered, swiftly. “ It is not 
yet time for that.” 

“ But it is time. A week more and I shall be 
able to go. Do you not think so? ” 

She did not answer. 

“ Do you not think so? ” His voice had this 
time a new sound, a quality which, without being 
harsh, frightened her. Without daring to look 
into his face, Frances rose and walked from the 
tent. 

When she returned, an hour later, Zembec 
showed that he had been thinking. He was tired, 
and paler than usual, and complained of his head. 
He did not recur to the subject; but she knew he 
had divined the truth. Once, when she expressed 
the fear that he had over-exerted himself in try- 
ing to sit up in bed, he answered wearily, “ No, it 
is not that,” and turned his face from her. 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 27 

The next morning she found him taciturn. But 
after an hour or so he suddenly shook off his mood 
and resumed all his old gaiety. Frances, with 
lighter heart, responded in kind, and the cloud was 
dissipated. Toward noon he asked her whether 
she did not think that Joseph might be able to 
trim his beard and hair. 

“ You must be tired of playing Beauty to such 
a Beast,” he laughed. “ I haven’t seen a barber 
since they shaved my head in ” 

She held up a warning hand. But Joseph was 
sent for. 

The invalid was in high spirits. He turned to 
her as Joseph came in. 

“What cut would you prefer, Mademoiselle? 
One like Joseph’s? Joseph, stand there in the 
light, where Mademoiselle can appreciate your 
beauty. Ah, but a beard like that would become 
me, too, and I see approval in Mademoiselle’s 
eyes. Joseph, give me a nice little pointed stub 
like yours.” 


CHAPTER IV 


S OME four or five days later, the question as 
to Zembec’s plans was again brought up, in 
an unexpected manner. He was progress- 
ing rapidly, and one afternoon he carelessly de- 
clared his intention to dress and sit up in a chair. 
Frances rose. 

“ I think you might risk it to-day,” she assented. 
“ I’ll bring your ” 

Then she stopped. For the Count’s only outer 
garment was the ragged Kirghiz robe in which 
they had found him. 

Zembec understood. “ My khalat. Ah, Ma- 
demoiselle, it is all I have. It was my safeguard 
once. And you, Mademoiselle, in bringing me 
back to life — real life — have made me hate it, as 
the emblem of an outcast.” 

The tears started to her eyes. She came toward 
him and, leaning over the bed, rested her hand 
upon his. 

“ Count Michael,” she said, gently, “ you know 
that we are your friends, do you not? ” 

28 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 29 

He nodded. 

“ And that we wish to help you all we can? ” 

41 Yes.” 

Frances hesitated, gathering together the reins 
of her determination. 

“ My brother and I have again and again 
talked the question over, as to how much we can 
do. He is doing his work here, you know, by the 
courtesy of the Russian government. We are its 
guests; and my brother feels that there is a point 
beyond which he should not go in violating its hos- 
pitality, even for a friend. You can — no, you 
must — stay here until you are well and strong; as 
strong as ever, and fit to cope with your difficulties. 
But ” 

Zembec gently interrupted her. 

“ Do not try to say any more. I know. You 
told me so the other day, when you left the tent. 
And I understood your reasons. It would be 
otherwise if you could make it so, Mademoiselle, 
I know; for — for you are of the Saints. And 
now, — may I have my khalat? As you say, I must 
get strong.” 

And suddenly Frances felt his thin hands draw- 
ing her face toward his own, the warm touch of his 
lips upon her forehead. 


30 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

Trembling, and with burning face, she left the 
tent. It was only a sick man’s expression of grati- 
tude, she vehemently told herself, something to be 
forgotten. But, after sending Joseph to help Zem- 
bec dress, she went straight out into the desert, and 
walked there long and thoughtfully, hidden from 
all the world by the sand-dunes. 

From Zembec the mood quickly passed. He 
had Joseph place his chair close by the entrance to 
the tent, and watched for her return with a half- 
smile of triumph in his eyes. As she came across 
the sand, he whistled softly and pulled back the 
flaps. The man’s appearance shocked her. In 
nursing the invalid, in her long talks with him as 
her equal, she had gradually divorced Zembec the 
man from Zembec the wild-eyed, persecuted, hun- 
gered outcast whom she had found in the desert ten 
days before. The ragged, faded brown robe 
brought his true position cruelly before her. It 
was the more pitiful garb for him now, since his 
skin had been whitened by sickness and confine- 
ment and his long hair and matted beard had been 
removed. The costume was no longer a disguise ; 
it was an exaggerated, ridiculous masquerade. Its 
impossibility was apparent. The man could not 
travel in it for an hour without detection. 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 31 

Zembec smiled at her confusion. 

“ It became me very well before I knew you,” 
he said. 

“ It will never do now,” she answered, de- 
cidedly. “You must Do you think you 

could wear some of my brother’s clothes? ” 

“ They would be rather small, I fear. He is a 
short man, and I am over a meter eighty — more 
than six feet in your measurement.” 

“ Then you must buy some.” 

Zembec laughed. “ Certainly that would be the 
best way out of it. But — I left home rather un- 
expectedly, you know, and have been away a long 
time.” 

“ We must lend you some money,” she an- 
swered, with a touch of apology in her voice. 
“ Not only for clothes, but to — get out of the 
country with — later. I don’t know how my 
brother feels about that; we have not discussed it. 
But I can spare some of my own — not much, but 
two hundred and fifty dollars or so — five hundred 
rubles. Would that answer, do you think? I 
am sorry it cannot be more. We are a long way 
from home, too, you know.” 

“ But five hundred rubles is a fortune,” he cried. 
“ Only ” 


32 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

“ You can pay it back when you reach your 
ho — your friends.” 

Zembec sobered. 

“ I will take the money, Mademoiselle — as a 
loan, to be returned when I reach my friends. Ah, 
I wonder why with you I have no pride. I ” 

“ Perhaps,” answered Frances, evenly, “ I 
should have said your other friends.” 

“ Thank you,” he returned, humbly. Then, 
“ Do you think Joseph might be spared to go to 
Askhabad for a day? ” 

“ To make some purchases for you? Of course 
he can go.” 

“ He is about my height and build; and if he 
buys the sort of clothes he himself would wear, it 
might be done without creating any suspicion.” 

Joseph was dispatched to Askhabad early the 
next morning, with carefully given instructions. 
J 3 y night, Zembec was in possession of a brand- 
new outfit. The clothes were hardly what he him- 
self would have chosen, perhaps, but they brought 
him nearer to civilization than he had been for 
many a long month before. Both he and Frances 
were happy over the result, though they both 
laughed at his appearance. 

“ It is well, indeed,” said Zembec, recalling his 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 33 

words of the day before, “ that I have no pride 
with you.” 

Ware, too, though perhaps he would not have 
consented to loan Zembec money, was pleased in 
a way; for, with his guest dressed and moving 
about, the time for his departure seemed to have 
drawn much nearer. Zembec and Frances had 
been content to let the situation take care of itself ; 
observing the ordinary precautions against dis- 
covery, but giving no further heed to the fact that 
the fugitive’s presence placed the expedition in 
daily jeopardy. But Ware felt none of their se- 
curity. Zembec remained a constant menace, 
which he was unable to forget either when off su- 
perintending the excavations or working in his tent 
at night. Then, too, he missed his sister’s com- 
panionship, and unconsciously began to look upon 
his guest as a rival. Frances had been accustomed 
to spend her days at her brother’s side. She 
understood none of his problems, but nevertheless 
he had always drawn upon her aid, and upon the 
encouragement and sympathy the need of which her 
woman’s tact could divine even before they were 
demanded. Zembec’s coming had changed this. 
Her thoughts were elsewhere, and Ware felt his 
loss. He longed to get back to the old footing. 


34 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

But Zembec did not go. His strength came 
back slowly, and Frances had more than one 
heated argument with her brother, in which she 
put her foot down firmly on the subject of sending 
him off before he was fit to cope with his difficul- 
ties. Ware yielded, giving grace at first from day 
to day, then surrendering in toto, and bidding 
Frances have her own way. Only, he insisted, in 
stereotyped words, the man must go some time, 
and without further assistance. 

Two influences combined to bring about this 
partial change of front. In the first place, Zem- 
bec being out of bed and no longer in need of such 
constant nursing, Frances was able to give Ware 
more of her time. Every day she made a point of 
spending an hour or so in the morning, and as 
much more in the afternoon, at the excavations. 
The second influence, strange to say, was Zembec’s 
own personality. 

Until now, Ware had seen little of him; con- 
tenting himself with Frances’s reports, and drop- 
ping into the sick ward for only an occasional short 
visit as he went to and from his work. But this 
was no longer the case. The Pole, though re- 
maining hidden during the day, felt safe to leave 
his tent at night, after the servants had retired 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 35 

within their quarters. At first it was only for a 
short stroll alone ; then for longer ones, with 
Frances. One night he sought out the professor 
in his tent with a smiling invitation. Ware rather 
grudgingly pushed aside the papers on which he 
was engaged, and the two men walked out into the 
desert. 

Zembec had the capacity for making friends. 
Ware’s prejudice against him was merely born of 
caution. He suddenly found that they could be 
congenial companions. The Pole had travelled 
widely, had seen much and read much. He was 
at all times a good conversationalist, with the 
lively and passionate loquacity of his race; and 
to-night, under the spur of meeting on an equal 
footing, for the first time in many months, a man 
of his own class, he unconsciously strove to ap- 
pear at his best. Ware found himself charmed. 
Zembec was unable to walk far, but they made 
their way to the outer mounds of the old city and, 
stretched at full length upon the sand in the moon- 
light, settled between them the problems of the 
universe. Under the influence of subtle sympathy 
two men will do that as readily as will a man and 
woman. 

It was late when they returned, much later than 


36 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

Frances would have deemed wise for her patient. 
As they halted before Zembec’s tent, Ware sud- 
denly turned upon him. 

“ Count Michael, why were you sent to Sibe- 
ria ?” 

“ They tried to expatriate the peasants on my 
land and give me Russian mujiks in their place,” 
was the prompt answer. “ Good-night.” He 
held out his hand. 

“ There was nothing criminal? ” 

“ Nothing criminal. Good-night.” 

“ Good-night.” 

They shook hands warmly. Zembec, entering 
his tent, raised his clenched fist and shook it at the 
air. 

Ware, entering his, realized how far he was 
from civilization out there in the Trans-Caspian 
Desert, and that until to-night he had been very 
lonely for the companionship of a man. Thus 
it happened that he left off counting the days 
to the time of his guest’s departure. A new 
routine was established. Frances and Zembec, 
as soon as darkness had fallen, would wander 
off into the desert for the prisoner’s period of ex- 
ercise; and then the two would adjourn to her 
brother’s quarters, where Ware and Zembec talked 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 37 

their talk, and Frances, always sparing of words, 
sat a listener. And so day after day rolled back 
into the Past and Zembec’s position as a necessary 
evil in the camp was changed to that of welcome 
visitor and friend. 

The Wares had systematically respected the 
privacy of the Pole’s affairs. “ If the man wishes 
to talk about Poland he will begin the subject him- 
self,” the archeologist had told his sister. It came 
about naturally one night; and both were sur- 
prised at the quiet dignity with which he spoke, 
not only of the relations of his country and Russia, 
but even of his own ambitions. Zembec was cer- 
tainly no longer the wild animal they had once half 
feared. 

“ I know we are a definitely disrupted nation,” 
he said, frankly, “ and that for Poland as an 
independent country there is neither outlook or 
hope. To that portion of our fate we bow, 
though we do it grudgingly; but to no more. We 
do not intend to lose our individuality, nor to make 
peace with the peoples who tore our country apart. 
We will be neither Austrians, nor Prussians, nor 
Russians. No matter by whom we are ruled, we 
will remain Poles. To accede to the plans for 
our absorption into other races would be to admit 


38 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

that the partition of Poland was legitimate and 
justified. It was not, nor will we admit it. Our 
kingdom was stolen from us. Do you think, then, 
that we should make friends with the thieves, enter 
into brotherhood with them ; fight their battles and 
assent to their dictatorial laws for us; forget our 
language, and speak theirs? Because the princi- 
pal estates of my forefathers fell within the Czar’s 
share of the spoils, should I become Russian? For 
centuries we had looked upon the Muscovite as an 
enemy equalled only by the Tartar in his ferocity 
and hatred. That Past has been written and cannot 
be wiped out. It is for the men of my own caste, 
Mademoiselle, to see that our people do not forget 
it. The peasants on my land are ignorant, stupid 
sheep, following the leader given them. I have 
the prior right to that leadership, and propose to 
yield it to no Russian; and never, by example or 
precept from me, shall they learn to forget that 
they are the victims of Russia, not its willing sub- 
jects.” 

Ware afterwards thought it had all been some- 
what vague. But although, the ice once broken, 
Zembec frequently recurred to the topic, he never 
became more precise. He dealt in his politics 
wholesale; the retailing of petty bickerings and 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 39 

persecutions was below him. Perhaps it was ex- 
actly this idealistic, doctrinaire treatment of the 
subject which won upon his hearers’ sympathy. 
His plans for Poland seemed the larger because of 
the very vagueness of their possible outcome. 

Upon Frances the effect was especially marked. 
She was by no means an impressionable, over- 
responsive woman. But she had herself seen how 
Zembec could bear pain, and had given him the re- 
spedt one pays a man who has suffered for adherence 
to his principles. The step from that view to one 
of martyrdom was not great. On more than one 
evening, after their gatherings had broken up and 
the camp was dark, Frances sat late before her tent, 
gazing off into the mysteries of the deep-shad- 
owed desert, wondering that such an all-absorbing 
life-work could be as had fallen to the lot of this 
man. Then would come, too, the realization that 
he was not yet safe; that he was still within the 
lines of the enemy, without means, without friends, 
without passport. And, oh, how brave and care- 
less in his difficulties ! Late, very late, she would 
go back, half joyful, half frightened, to her cot, 
and think herself to sleep. 


CHAPTER V 


T HE Wares had taken with a grain of salt 
the stories which had come to them of the 
fierce Trans-Caspian summer. But as 
May passed into June the heat became more and 
more intense, and by the end of June it was almost 
unbearable. Each morning the professor went to 
his work with less will and determination than on 
the day before; and each night he returned more 
nearly exhausted. Zembec and Frances kept to 
their tents, preferring even the close, stifling at- 
mosphere of confined space to the glare and thirsti- 
ness of the sand. At last Ware gave up. Mortal 
man could not stand such heat, he said to Frances, 
and they had best clear out and stay out until Sep- 
tember or October. He was prepared to pay off 
the workmen and break camp as soon as she was 
ready to go. 

“ Where? ” asked Frances. 

11 Wherever you like.” 

“ Paris,” she elected, very decisively. 

Frances set about her packing with more energy 
40 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 41 

than she had been able to muster for weeks, and 
for the next two days had little time to give to 
Zembec. The final evening came. Ware had 
already dismissed the Turkomans, and they had 
silently disappeared into the desert. The cook and 
his assistants were to go that evening after supper, 
with most of the baggage; and at daylight the 
Wares and Joseph were to follow. 

The last meal was a rather oppressive cere- 
mony. For the first time during his stay, Zembec 
dined with his hosts ; and the near approach of the 
hour when he must again become a fugitive held 
all three in silence. Finally the Pole pushed back 
his chair. 

“ I cannot stand this. I need — air, I think.” 
He turned to Frances. “ Will you come with 
me? ” 

The girl rose, rather timorously. She was half 
afraid of this gloomy man to-night. 

“ Over there among the dunes, where we first 
met,” he said, as they issued from the tent. “ Let 
us go back there for this last night.” 

They had walked but a few yards when Zembec 
excused himself and went back to the tent, for 
just one word, he said, with her brother. When 
he returned he was in lighter mood. 


42 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

They reached the dune from which, on that 
early morning a month and a half before, he had 
hailed the brown mountain line as the boundary 
of his promised land; and sat down together upon 
the sand. 

Zembec rattled on feverishly with small talk, 
until to the girl the situation became almost anti- 
climactic. Then, suddenly, his manner changed. 

“ Do you know why I brought you to this 
spot? ” he asked, abruptly. 

<< J M 

He did not wait for her answer. “ It is because 
the last six weeks have been a dream. I shall 
say good-bye to you, here. I shall sleep here in 
the sand to-night; and to-morrow I shall awaken 
as I awoke on that blessed morning. It has been a 
very sweet dream. But not an actuality. See. 
That black object there is my old khalat.” 

“You — you are saying good-bye now?” asked 
Frances, in a low, pained voice. 

“ Not yet. No, not yet. You must stay with 
me for an hour longer. But I shall not go back to 
the camp. I bade your brother adieu a few min- 
utes ago. But you — it is not so easy to leave you, 
Mademoiselle. Only I must remember to go as 
I came; that I am a fugitive, a renegade. You 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 43 

and your brother must not be compromised. So to- 
night — after one more short hour — I drop from 
your life.” 

Frances quickly put her hand out toward him, 
in protest. 

“ You must not say that. We do not want you 
dropped from our lives. We could not drop you 

even if we wished, for But you will escape. 

You must escape. And when you are out of this 
terrible country, you will find us again, and in the 
meantime we shall think of you, and look for you, 
and pray for you, Count Michael.” 

“ We cannot know, Mademoiselle,” he gloom- 
ily answered. “ When you found me I had be- 
come a wild animal, knowing how to hide and 
skulk as other wild animals do. I am that no 
longer, I think. You have made me lose confi- 
dence in myself. I almost gloried in my life be- 
fore; now I fear to go back to it.” 

“ But is it necessary that you should? ” she sug- 
gested. “ With money in your pocket why can 
you not make your way to Tiflis by train? Once 
there, you would find friends, I am sure. The 
Armenians in the Caucasus — are — are as revolu- 
tionary — as the Poles in Warsaw, are they not? ” 

Zembec laughed rather harshly. 


44 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

“ Russia holds many rebellious races in subjec- 
tion, Mademoiselle, but they are not united by 
friendship. We are Poles, in Warsaw; we have 
neither sympathy nor liking for these Eastern tribes 
which are only the racial scum of Asia. And 
where we do not seek allies we cannot ask for help. 
But even though aid were to be obtained there, I 
cannot go to Tiflis without a passport. It is not 
to be thought of. No, I must ” 

“ But can you not obtain some sort of passport 
— with money — something which would answer? 
I — I have heard that — that passport manufactur- 
ing is not unheard of.” 

“ That would be a way in Russia itself, or in 
Poland, but not here in Turkestan, I fear. Be- 
sides, it requires friends, and I Had you 

realized, Mademoiselle, what a cruelly high wall 
Russia has erected about her frontiers; that every 
man within her dominions is like a rat in a trap? 
And yet, somehow and somewhere, I must climb 
that wall without help. I hoped, when I met you, 
that we might be able to locate some Polish peas- 
ant who had served in garrison here and been left 
stranded when his time was up. A man like that 
would perhaps sell his papers, or rather rent them 
to me until I could reach the frontier. But I saw 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 45 

your position; and alone I could not manage it. 
No, don’t hurt me by explaining,” he added, has- 
tily. “ I fully understand. It would have been 
contemptible for your brother to assist me when 
his obligations lay upon the other side. I ask no 
man to break his faith, and what you did do was in 
itself more than I had the right to expect. The 
plan was only a passing dream.” 

“ Could you not borrow Joseph’s papers? ” 

Zembec started at the words ; but quickly recov- 
ered himself. 

“ Joseph is a Russian,” he answered. “ I should 
not dare trust him.” 

“ But he has proved himself kind and faithful 
in the past,” she pleaded. “ Why not try it? If 
he let you have them, I could feel that — that we 
had contributed in a way toward your escape. It 
would make me happier, so much happier, to be 
able to feel that.” 

“ I thank you, Mademoiselle, from the bottom 
of my heart; but it is an impossibility,” he re- 
turned, quietly. “ Joseph is a Russian; and what 
we obtain from Russians we will wring, not buy.” 

Frances heard the note of finality in his voice, 
and shuddered at the immensity of the passion 
which it disclosed. She felt a little injured, too, 


4 6 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

that the man’s obstinate pride would not bend even 
before the personal element in her appeal. For a 
long time both were silent; watching a little stream 
of sand which Frances let slip noiselessly from 
one hand to the other. Zembec finally stretched 
out his palm and intercepted the gentle column. 

u It is too much like an hour-glass,” he pleaded, 
in a low voice. “ Let us not measure these last 
few moments.” 

“ But you — you must escape some way.” 

“ These last few moments of a lifetime, to me, 
Mademoiselle.” 

“ You must not lose courage,” she went on, 
feverishly, fighting for delay. “ Remember how 
far you have travelled already without being 
caught. You will get through — somehow. I 
know it. You must get through, with such a 
grand ambition as yours to buoy you up — such 
noble work to do. Oh, if I were only a man, to 
deal in such big affairs, to ” 

Zembec’s outstretched hand dropped a little, and 
covered her own. 

“ I thank God you are a woman, Mademoiselle, 
and such a woman as you are. Will you listen to 
me a moment? I shall reach safety somehow. I 
have not combated Russia in Poland to yield to 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 47 

her here. I shall get back — to work and — to 
you.” 

“ To ” 

u To you. Mademoiselle, here in Turkestan I 
am a wanderer, unvouched for, an ordinary tramp. 
You have believed my story. But I must give you 
proof of its truth before I may say all that I wish 
to say. No, no, not that! Before I seek your 
answer. For say it I will. I love you, Mademoi- 
selle. The Saints only know how I love you. 
I ” 

Frances, with dimmed eyes, turned her face full 
upon him. Her voice was very low and dignified. 

“ I ask for no other proof than you have already 
given us, Count Michael.” 

“No, no, you must not say that! You must 
not speak. I forbid it,” he cried with vehemence. 
“ Dare an outcast hear a promise from a woman 
like you? Or dare the woman take away the 
outcast’s hope of life? What would a Pole be, 
without hope, Mademoiselle? But I shall live 
upon it, and I shall come to you, in Paris, before 
the summer is over. I shall find you in some way; 
and then, after I have been rehabilitated, it will be 
different, will it not, my — Mademoiselle? ” 

“ Not one whit,” she answered, promptly. 


48 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

“ Don’t! It will. And now it — it is time.” 

Very gently he assisted her to her feet. For 
the moment he retained his hold upon her hands, 
and she felt the man slowly drawing her toward 
him. But he suddenly dropped them, almost with 
force, and folded his arms. 

“ Good-night, Mademoiselle.” 

“ Good-night.” 

Frances walked very slowly and solemnly back 
to the camp. Again and again she turned, long- 
ing that the man’s will might be broken and that 
he might follow her. But always she saw him 
standing in the same spot, a lone, dim, black object 
silhouetted against the ocean of silver-tinted sand. 


CHAPTER VI 


J OSEPH failed to call the Wares the next 
morning. On examination the archeologist 
found that he was missing. His cot had been 
slept in ; but he had evidently absconded during the 
night, taking all his own effects and a little money 
which, as the camp’s housekeeper, he had had in 
his possession. Ware could disregard the loss of 
the funds, but he was angered by the delay. The 
man’s defection left him to take down and pack 
the tents alone and, instead of making their de- 
parture at daybreak and covering the ten miles to 
Askhabad in the cool of the morning, they did not 
even get under way until well toward nine o’clock. 
They were accordingly forced to travel very 
slowly; and it was only late in the afternoon that 
they reached their destination, worn out with fa- 
tigue and heat, and with little more than time to 
dispose of the luggage that was to be stored in 
Askhabad, before the departure of their train. 
Ware’s obligatory call upon the Governor of the 
district was made without change of costume. 

49 


JO PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

“ And the worst of it is,” he growled to Fran- 
ces, as they packed themselves into the crowded 
and stifling railroad carriage, “ we could not stay 
to prosecute the ungrateful scamp.” 

The journey toward civilization was hot and 
arduous, but this was its only really disagreeable 
incident. Three days later they reached Batoum, 
on the shore of the Black Sea, and there made 
close connection with a Massagerie Maritime 
steamer for Marseilles. 

The sea trip was a saving feature to Frances. 
Her brother ascribed her worn, tired look to the 
exertion of their rush out of Asia, and she did not 
undeceive him. But what Frances Ware really 
demanded was opportunity, not to rest, but to 
think. 

The last few days of her stay in Turkestan and, 
above all, that last interview with Zembec, had 
wrought a great upheaval in the girl’s feelings; 
and the bustle and hurry of the journey overland 
had only kept the tumult seething. She was op- 
pressed by a vague sense of guilt, of having be- 
trayed herself and her principles. She seemed to 
have surrendered herself absolutely and without 
thought or hesitation to a romance, the unwisdom, 
the folly of which she could not for a moment 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 51 

deny. Their departure from Turkestan had been 
to her the flight from the scene of a crime. 

For Frances was in the main a practical, even- 
minded woman, poised and deliberate, and with 
firm convictions. Sitting on the deck of the 
steamer, as it skirted the rugged black coast of 
Asia Minor, she wondered how she could have 
so far forgotten her principles ; how, in those long 
communions which she had held with herself at 
her tent door, after Zembec and her brother were 
in bed, she had permitted her thoughts to dwell 
so entirely upon the man, rather than upon the 
impossible future they were carving out together. 
She did not believe, and never had believed, in 
international marriages. She felt that there could 
rarely be established a common home when hus- 
band and wife had been born and bred in so diverse 
atmospheres and imbued from childhood with such 
different prejudices and ways of thought. She had 
seen the thing tried by her friends, and it had 
always failed. And yet with Zembec she had not 
cried halt — with the man who, of all men, repre- 
sented ideals unlike and incompatible with her 
own. For the first time in all her musing Frances 
asked herself what their married life would be. 

She asked herself the question, and then was 


52 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

dismayed at the positiveness with which she had 
imbued it. From some sort of future with him 
there was no escape. He would come back and — 
she shut her lips tightly together — against her own 
good judgment, perhaps against her brother’s 
wishes, she would marry him. She was bound to 
that. She had told him to come, and she knew 
she wanted him to come. With a glad thrill of 
excitement she conjured up the moment when she 
would see his great figure standing in her doorway 
and hear that infectious laugh. 

“ I am here,” he would cry, in his triumphant 
way; “ I am here, Mademoiselle. Did I not tell 
you that I, who am a Pole, would get away from 
them?” 

So ended all her periods of introspection; in 
defeat for her principles and common sense, in 
obstinate joy that she cared and was cared for. 
One possibility she deliberately excluded from her 
thoughts. She permitted herself not even a pass- 
ing suggestion that Zembec might fail to come. 
Her confidence in the man’s ability to escape from 
Russian territory was indomitable. 

For ten days the steamer zigzagged from port to 
port, through the Black Sea and along the north- 
ern coast of the Mediterranean. It stopped an 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 53 

hour here, ten hours there, picking up and drop- 
ping all sorts of strange looking freight and hu- 
manity, and giving Frances each day a glimpse of 
some new race or country. Under the influence 
of constantly changing scenes and interests she 
soon regained her equanimity and poise. Ware, 
observant though he was of all things regarding 
his sister’s well-being, put aside his solicitude be- 
fore they had even passed the Bosphorus. There- 
after he used the idle deck hours for the comple- 
tion of an article. Frances was glad to be free 
from him in a way. Her conscience reproved her 
sharply for not telling him the details of that last 
conversation with Zembec. 

The voyage from the Caucasus to Marseilles 
was almost uneventful. It would have been wholly 
so had not Frances formed during its course a 
friendship which, trivial as steamer friendships are 
apt to be, was destined to materially affect her after- 
life. When the Wares sat down to dinner the first 
night on board, they found at the table only two 
passengers beside themselves; two commercial 
travellers, Frenchmen. Later on a third appeared, 
whom the ship’s doctor introduced to Frances as 
Mr. Fenn-Brook. He was a rather thick-set, ruddy- 
faced, upper-class Englishman of about thirty, with 


54 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

an expression of boyish joviality playing about his 
mouth, but with keen blue eyes the sharpness of 
which belied all suggestion of immaturity. Fran- 
ces was attracted to him at once, possibly because, 
unlike his fellows, he did not make immediate and 
obvious preparations for the conquest of her af- 
fections. She had at the time little else to judge 
by, for the newcomer was apparently no more in- 
clined to talk to her than he was to notice the rather 
scornful and derisive gaze which the Frenchmen 
directed at his evening clothes. He listened to the 
desultory conversation with a bland half-smile, and 
ate his meal. Only when the two other strangers, 
wearied of their unsuccessful attempts to draw 
Frances into a flirtation, fell into a voluble discus- 
sion of Eastern politics, she saw a little expression 
of amusement in his eyes. It escaped the French- 
men, however, who either became intentionally 
rude, or felt safe in the idea that he could not 
understand their language. At any rate, they grad- 
ually drifted into making fun of England’s policy. 
The situation was rather distressing to Frances, 
but not at all so to the Englishman. He drank his 
coffee, as he had eaten his dessert, in amused si- 
lence. But when they had risen from the table, 
and the men fell back to let Frances pass, she 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 55 

heard him remark to one of the Frenchmen, quietly 
but in a tone that denied further discussion : 

“ Really, you know, you shouldn’t talk of things 
about which you know nothing. It makes you 
quite ridiculous.” 

Shortly afterward, as Frances was standing 
against the ship’s rail, watching the night fall upon 
the great brown mountain chain behind them, he 
joined her. 

“ Queer chaps, Frenchmen, aren’t they? Don’t 
you hate their silly language? ” Then, taking for 
granted the only answer that seemed possible after 
she had been elevated to the plane of Anglo-Saxon 
superiority, “ Are you going through to Mar- 
seilles?” 

“ Yes, we expect to. And you? Oh, how nice! 
I was afraid those two men were to be our only 
companions. You should be complimented on the 
way you rode down their remarks to-night. I 
heard what you said to them afterward. I imag- 
ined while they were talking that you knew more 
of the subject than they did themselves.” 

The Englishman shrugged his shoulders. “ Per- 
haps I should. It is my profession.” 

“Oh! You mean you are a — newspaper 
man?” 


j6 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

“ No. Pm in the service — Consular, you know. 
I have been acting as Secretary to the Legation 
in Teheran for a few months, to help out. Now 
I am on the way back to my old post in Warsaw.” 

“ In ” Frances, taken off her guard, gave 

a little gasp, 

“Warsaw. Have you ever been there? It’s a 
beastly place, I think; don’t you? Full of the po- 
litical riff-raff of Russia. They make us a deal 
of bother — Poles who claim to be British sub- 
jects, you know, and want us to issue illegal 
passports for them. I can’t make them realize that 
His Majesty doesn’t take an active personal inter- 
est in conspirators and deserters from the Rus- 
sian army.” 

“ I have never been there,” responded Frances, 
rather dully. Fenn-Brook glanced at her sharply; 
then abruptly turned the conversation. 

“ A rather peculiar incident that,” he said to 
himself afterward, when the girl had left him to 
join her brother. “ I wonder what it was that up- 
set her.” 

In spite of the smallness of the ship, they did 
not see much of each other for the next few days. 
Frances avoided him. The man’s remark had dis- 
closed to her a knowledge of Polish affairs which 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 57 

in some vague way seemed to threaten danger. It 
was very silly, she told herself, to carry Zembec’s 
secret so heavily, but nevertheless she dared not 
trust herself with a person whose words showed 
him to be out of all sympathy with her lover’s aims 
— perhaps acquainted with the very events that led 
to his imprisonment. She had not yet acquired suf- 
ficient self-confidence to parry even chance thrusts. 

But this was during the earlier days of the voy- 
age, while Frances was still tense with doubt of 
self and the future. With the regaining of her 
equanimity she began to have less fear of him. 
Fenn-Brook tactfully kept away from her chair. 
But they met constantly at table, of course, and 
there — after the first meal or two his stiffness was 
confined to the Frenchmen — she found him inva- 
riably genial, bright, and sympathetic; and the sub- 
ject of Warsaw had apparently been buried on that 
first evening. 

The result was that by the time they reached 
Marseilles a warm steamer friendship had sprung 
up between them, which contributed not a little 
toward the complete restoration of Frances’s peace 
of mind. She needed just such an influence; a 
companionship broad and generous, amusing and 
free from sentiment. This last Fenn-Brook cer- 


58 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

tainly gave her. Frances told her brother, the 
night the ship lay at Piraeus, after she and the 
Englishman had returned from an excursion to the 
Acropolis, that he was the most heretical and un- 
poetic man she had ever seen. 

“ Imagine what comment he made while we 
were walking up the steps toward the Parthenon: 
‘ Really, you know, think of the old chaps know- 
ing how to build that temple and still not having 
the sense to climb up Olympus and find out whether 
their silly gods were really there. Ridiculous, 
wasn’t it? ’ He almost killed my ardor.” 

It was in keeping with this lack of romance in 
Fenn-Brook, that when they finally landed at Mar- 
seilles he should bid them good-bye at once, with- 
out dangling at Frances’s apron-strings all the way 
to Paris, although he travelled by the same route 
and train. Once or twice during the journey he 
came to the door of the Wares’ carriage for a 
passing word, but that was all. Frances did not 
see him after his arrival in Paris; and, as she left 
the station, she felt, with a shadow of regret, that 
an acquaintance which in time might have devel- 
oped into a real friendship had suddenly been 
terminated. 


CHAPTER VII 


O NCE in Paris, Ware set himself to house- 
hunting without delay, and Frances soon 
found herself the temporary mistress of a 
nicely furnished little apartment in the rue Galilee, 
but a square or so distant from the Champs Ely- 
sees. The summer season was of course at its 
height, and the city was overrun by Americans. 
Frances encountered many whom she knew well. 
But, except for her formal call at the Embassy, she 
made no effort to seek the society of her country- 
men, and entertained but little. Her brother of 
course sought out his colleagues in the French uni- 
versity, and some of these he occasionally brought 
to the house; and now and then they were dined 
in turn. But Frances kept to herself as much as 
possible. 

Ware could not understand it. Frances had 
always been a self-contained woman, inclined to 
draw upon her own resources for her amusements, 
but now she seemed almost listless. He at first 
tried to laugh her out of her long periods of ab- 
59 


60 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

straction and introspection, then talked to her 
about it seriously. She answered that she merely 
did not care about seeing people. 

“ You have no cause for worry of which you 
have not told me? ” he demanded. 

Frances answered “ No,” and hated herself for 
not accepting the comfort which she knew he meant 
to offer. Ware decided that she needed fresh air, 
and that afternoon rented a motor-car for the term 
of their stay in Paris. 

But though she busied herself all the morning 
hours assisting her brother with his manuscript and 
took long spins with him about the suburbs of 
Paris in the afternoon, time still hung heavily on 
Frances’s hands and the days passed very slowly 
by. She checked them off one by one, as of an 
era dating from her parting from Zembec, and sub- 
tracted them one by one from the indefinite number 
that still were left him in which to find her. And 
secretly, in her room at night, she measured them 
by little stretches of ten and fifteen miles each, on a 
map of Turkestan and Persia. There were many 
routes which he might have taken, and he had told 
her nothing of his plans. So she tried to follow 
him on all, and she continually encountered new 
possibilities. 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 61 

It was not a love-sick occupation, for there was 
little longing in it, beyond the longing for cer- 
tainty. As the days passed by, and the system of 
lines on her map grew more and more complex, 
she was brought to the keen realization of the 
greatness of the uncertainty to which she had 
condemned herself. She had thought he might 
find opportunity to write, if only a single unsigned 
line; but no word came. Frances made a list of 
the addresses through which he might try to reach 
her; the Embassy, the Consulate, the Herald, the 
Credit Lyonnais; and requested at each that let- 
ters be forwarded at once. But July passed into 
August and still he remained silent. 

With money in his pocket, Zembec should have 
been able to travel far in a whole month. Her 
task became harder as the horizon of possibilities 
increased. So long as he remained in Turkestan, 
her uncertainty had at least been tempered by the 
fact that she could picture his surroundings and his 
difficulties. But now even that consolation was 
denied her. He might be anywhere, by this 
time. 

One night toward the end of the third week 
in Paris she took her map as usual from its hiding 
place, then hesitated, and finally put it back again 


62 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

without the usual study. Thereafter it remained 
unopened. 

Another month passed. Still silence. She still 
waited, still hoped; but she no longer saw in every 
passer-by the possible figure of the fugitive; no 
longer started at the ringing of the bell of their 
apartment. Her whole connection with Zembec be- 
came only a vague remembrance, a vague foreshad- 
owing of something that would one day come to 
her and for which she must hold herself in readi- 
ness. She never wavered in her loyalty. She 
doubted neither the Pole’s sincerity nor that he 
would eventually return to her. But she ceased 
counting the days and waited mechanically, accept- 
ing the time of his absence as a period of mystery 
which must be lived through without complaint or 
bitterness or doubt, and which in time would end. 

Frances allowed neither sentiment nor tragedy 
to enter into her resolution, and even laughed to 
herself at the degree, to which she had been 
swayed by them at the beginning, in the days of 
her anxiety. A straightforward, matter-of-fact 
woman, she had been sure to find her course, sooner 
or later, and now that it was found she set out 
upon it in a matter-of-fact way. She resolved that 
the undercurrent of uncertainty must not affect the 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 63 

direction of her daily life. She made only one 
change in her present plans. It would be an act 
of infidelity, she felt, to go back to Turkestan, to 
the one spot in which her lover, when he was free, 
could not reach her. 

It was with considerable diffidence that she told 
her brother of this determination. She felt very 
much like a deserter from a cause to which she had 
long been devoted; and that, too, without satis- 
factory reasons. The only excuse she had to offer 
for her defection was the loneliness and roughness 
of their life there, and Ware was hurt that the 
sister who had always been so loyal to him, and 
upon whose sympathetic companionship he had 
always so relied, should think to fail him. 

“ I can’t understand you, Frances,” he pro- 
tested. “ Had you brought the question up a 
month ago, I should have said it was just a case 
of doldrums. But you have been so much hap- 
pier and jollier during the past two weeks that 

I imagined you had come out of them. It 

By George ! it’s not because you have any senti- 
mental dread of the place on account of that mis- 
erable Pole, is it? ” 

Frances smiled. 

“ No, it is no such sentiment as that,” she as- 


6 4 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

sured him. “ It is only that Turkestan is so 
lonely — so lonely and,” she added as salve to her 
own conscience, “ — so hard to get to.” 

Both were content to let the conversation drop 
with that. But Ware by no means gave up. He 
considered the advisability of postponing his re- 
turn for another two weeks or a month, and re- 
solved that in the meantime Frances should have 
more diversion. 

He blamed himself for having selfishly left her 
to her own resources, and thereafter insisted upon 
dragging her into a continual round of pleasure. 
Frances appreciated his motives, and protested that 
she was neither unhappy nor insufficiently occupied, 
as it was. But her brother, having prescribed, 
was determined to see the medicine taken, and 
eventually she humored him by taking it. 

Among other people whom he ferreted out and 
invited to dine with them were John Markham 
and his wife, who were on their way to Greece for 
the winter. 

“ I ran across them driving through the rue 
de la Paix, shopping,” he told Frances, “ and had 
a tremendous chase. They are coming to dine 
with us to-night. And, by the way, Frances, it 
has occurred to me that that man, Fenn-Brook, 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 6j 

whom we met on the steamer, must have been the 
English Consul at Sofia whom the Markhams 
talk so much about — the one who broke up that 
conspiracy for them. His name always sounded 
familiar to me, but I could never place him until 
to-day after seeing John. It is certainly a cu- 
riously small world.” 

The world was even smaller than Ware had 
estimated. For at dinner Markham not only con- 
firmed his identification of the Englishman, but 
told them that he would be in Paris again the next 
day. 

“ I had a wire from him,” he told them, “ this 
very morning, saying that he would cross the Chan- 
nel by to-night’s boat.” 

“ And the worst of it is,” interrupted Mrs. 
Markham, “ that he will no sooner get here than 
we must run away from him. John has promised 
to take some young people out to Fontainebleau 
for the day, and I am engaged to chaperon them.” 

“ Turn him over to me,” said Frances. “ I’ll 
take him out somewhere in the car. Howard will 
be glad of a vacation, I think. He has been show- 
ing me so much brotherly devotion lately that he 
is far behind with his work.” 

“ That would do very well indeed. But Mar- 


66 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

tha would give her consent to it only on one con- 
dition,” returned Markham. “ You will have to 
promise not to keep Fenn-Brook for more than the 
one day. I play a very inconspicuous second 
fiddle in her affections when he is about, you 
know.” 

“ I think I can promise,” answered Frances, 
with a smile. “ Mr. Fenn-Brook will probably 
see to his escape himself. He was rather elusive 
on the steamer, at any rate.” 

“ Fenn-Brook isn’t very much of a lady’s- 
man,” admitted Markham, laughing. “ It is only 
when you are in a scrape that he shows his true 
colors. If you should happen to go to Warsaw, 
and fall into trouble there — as you probably would 
if you went at all, I suppose — I back him to get 
you out against the combined efforts of all the 
officials in Russia.” 

Frances flushed slightly, but kept her self- 
control without effort, and wondered that she could 
do so. It was only two months, she remembered, 
since the very sound of the word “ Warsaw ” on 
Fenn-Brook’s lips had thrown her into a state of 
mortal dread. Nevertheless, the remark warned 
her to be on her guard, as before; and it was with 
a little trepidation, the next afternoon, that she 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 67 

saw the jovial Englishman take his place beside 
her in the car. She had never before had a three 
hours’ tete-a-tete with him. 

“ Have you any choice as to our destination? ” 
she asked. 

“ Not after we leave Paris. But if you can 
give me a glimpse of Napoleon’s tomb on the way 
I should be obliged. I make a pilgrimage there 
at least once every time I am in Paris. It gives 
me a certain satisfaction, don’t you know, to feel 
that an Englishman finally managed to whip a man 
great enough to deserve such a mausoleum.” 

Frances laughingly swung the car into the Ave- 
nue Marceau and ran over to the Hotel des In- 
valides. Fenn-Brook did not care to get out, but 
studied the great dome of the tomb from his 
seat. 

“ L’Empereur ! ” he muttered. “ And, by gad, 
you know, we thought to deprive him of the title. 

Beastly man, Sir Hudson Lowe. I wonder ” 

He turned full upon Frances. “ — I wonder what 
would happen to Europe if a man like Napoleon 
were to be born to Poland.” 

“ I — I ” Frances started the car quickly 

ahead. Fenn-Brook waited for her answer and 
noted that it did not come. It was very curious. 


68 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 
She had denied him once before in the same 
manner. 

Teams were in the way, immediately after that, 
and Miss Ware’s attention was entirely taken up 
by the steering wheel. When they finally emerged 
into the open country at Grenilly, she turned to 
him. 

“ Don’t you think Mrs. Markham a beautiful 
woman? ” She asked the question in a tone which 
her companion understood. The other topic was 
not to be renewed. 

They made a quick run to Melun, thirty miles 
up the valley of the Seine, and then Frances turned 
to the right and began to climb the hills, intend- 
ing to cross the hills to Chevreuse and reach home 
by way of Versailles. But somewhere in this part 
of the trip she missed the proper road. The mis- 
take was discovered about five o’clock, when Fenn- 
Brook, who had hitherto been content to let Fran- 
ces carry him whither she would, glanced at the 
sun. 

“ Of course I have no engagement in town for 
some time to come, myself, Miss Ware,” he sug- 
gested. “ But don’t you think it a bit late for us 
to be still running southwest? ” 

Frances put her foot hard upon the brake. 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 69 

“Southwest! Why, we should be coming into 
Chevreuse in a few minutes. You must be mis- 
taken.” 

Fenn-Brook pointed to the stream which they 
were following. “ At any rate, you know, we are 
going away from the Seine. Unless, that is, the 
rivers here in France flow uphill.” 

Frances, in some dismay, headed the car about, 
and they retraced their course. Five miles back 
they found a cross-road, with a finger sign, 
“ Sceaux, Paris,” pointing north. She looked very 
doubtfully at the road-bed. 

“ It’s awfully narrow and rough,” she admitted, 
“ but the most direct way home from here must 
be through Sceaux. We may find that it runs 
into a military road later on. And we — we cannot 
climb over all those hills to Melun again ! ” 

“ We might do that and leave the car there for 
the night, and go home by train. But that would 
not be game; would it? Let us die game, at any 
rate. I speak for the bad road and the chance of 
a moon.” 

Their troubles really began at that point. 
Shortly beyond the turn, the road led them up 
a steep climb, which the machine barely accom- 
plished. Thereafter it held to the tops of the 


70 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

ridges with a persistence all the more exasperating 
because, once or twice, the white line of a parallel 
military road could be seen in the valley beneath 
them. At times it became sufficiently good to inspire 
a little hope in Frances’s breast, then cruelly killed 
that hope. For a stretch of at least three miles she 
was forced to keep the machine on its low gear, 
crawling along at a snail’s pace; and when at last 
they descended into the valley, darkness had al- 
ready come on. With the feel of the hard mac- 
adam bottom beneath the wheels, Frances gave a 
great gasp of relief. 

“ By Jove ! ” muttered Fenn-Brook. “ By Jove, 
Miss Ware, you are plucky, you know! I am 
quite glad I didn’t offer my assistance.” 

“ You might do it now, and find out what that 
sign-post says,” she returned, with a worried laugh. 

Fenn-Brook climbed out and held a match up 
to the black shadow. “ We are quite safe now,” 
he called back to her. “ And we have only sixty 
kilometers to go — forty miles? ” 

“ And it is now ? ” 

Fenn-Brook held another match to his watch. 

“ Ten minutes to eight” 

“ Will — will you please run the machine? ” she 
said, as he returned. 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 71 

Fenn-Brook, with more daring than Frances 
would have possessed, rushed matters. The road 
was broad and smooth, and the moon, when it came 
up, gave him plenty of light, and he covered more 
than thirty miles of their return in less than an 
hour. As the lights of the little suburban town 
of Sceaux appeared in the distance, and they 
whirred past one or two of its outlying villas, 
Frances framed a compliment for his driving; but 
it died away on her lips. She had heard an omi- 
nous churgle ; the missing of a spark, then of two 
— of three — in succession. And slowly the impo- 
tent machine came to a standstill. 


CHAPTER VIII 


OR a moment the occupants of the car sat 



motionless, in that peculiar state of helpless 


expectancy which only automobilists who 
have undergone similar experiences can appreciate. 
Then they looked at one another, and laughed. 

“ It — it is the gasolene, I fear.” 

“ I know,” assented Fenn-Brook. He reluctant- 
ly stepped to the ground and, bending over, ex- 
amined the gauge. Then, standing back, he sur- 
veyed the car as a whole, in silent contempt. 

“ How far do you think we are from Sceaux? ” 
asked Frances, finally. 

“ A couple of miles.” 

“ We must walk it. We can take a train or 
trolley from there.” 

Fenn-Brook, without answering, looked about 
him. “ Let me try to find some sort of vehicle 
first; or a boy who will go in and bring us back 
some gasolene. If we can once get to the village 
we can fill up there and make time by standing by 
the machine. Do you mind waiting here a bit 
while I explore? ” 


72 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 73 

He strode forward down the road. A moment 
later Frances saw his faint image step into the 
range of the motor lamps. He halted at a break 
in the hedge that lined the road, and then disap- 
peared through it. She heard the creak of a 
swinging gate ; and peering through the trees, made 
out the black shadow of a house, all dark save for 
one or two faint streaks of light at a lower window. 

Telling her brother of the adventure, later, 
9 Frances stated that the ensuing period of silence 
lasted fifteen minutes at least. It may actually 
have lasted for two. Then it was rudely ter- 
minated, or rather interrupted, by the sudden 
opening and banging to again of the front door of 
the house, the slamming of the gate, and the crash 
of a man’s body breaking through the hedge. 
Four or five faint figures dashed through the beam 
of light from the car, and disappeared in the dark- 
ness beyond it. Another crept stealthily down the 
road under cover of the hedge, like a great shad- 
owy gray animal skulking away from danger. 
Then the silence was resumed. 

Fenn-Brook did not return. Frances discovered, 
with dull appreciation, that the cracks of light in 
the window had disappeared. Still no sign of 
Fenn-Brook. She was trembling a little, and felt 


74 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

chilly. Getting out of the car, she held her watch 
to the light. She would give him five minutes, 

and then The watch was slipped back into 

her bosom, and ticked there violently. At the end 
of what seemed five minutes, she pulled it out 
again, and found that barely one had elapsed. 
Then she began to count; forcing herself to re- 
member how slowly a clock’s pendulum swings to 
and fro. At one hundred she stopped. She 
strained her ears and eyes in a last moment’s effort 
to pierce the silent darkness; and, with a shiver of 
dread, but resolutely, made her way to the house. 

The gate was found without difficulty. Frances 
pushed it gently open, to prevent its creaking, and 
found herself on a rough gravel path. On both 
sides were thick bushes, reaching higher than her 
head, completely shutting out even the little light 
that might otherwise have reached her from the 
motor lamps. She groped her way along slowly, 
and reached a pair of stone steps and, beyond them, 
the door. She was dimly conscious, as she felt 
about for the bell, that the paint on the casement 
was rough and peeling off. When she at last 
found the handle and pulled it, the bell rod came 
out its length without resistance and with no result 
beyond a ghostly empty clack. 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 75 

She paused, frightened at the unexpected noise. 
It was the sound that would come from a deserted 
house. And yet there had certainly been a light in- 
side, and Fenn-Brook was probably inside even 
now. With her hand on the door-knob, she 
turned and searched the darkness of the shrubbery. 

“ Mr. Fenn-Brook? ” she called in a whisper. 

The bushes held their silence. A little louder: 

“ Mr. Fenn-Brook? ” 

Then, in desperation, she turned the handle and 
pushed the door open. A wall of blackness rose 
before her. 

“ Mr. Fenn-Brook? ” pleaded the woman, into 
its depths. 

From somewhere beyond came an answer, faint 
and broken, but authoritative. “Miss Ware! 
Go — back to the car — at once.” 

“ Where are you? What is the matter? ” 

“ Go back to the car, I say. I will be there 
shortly.” 

“ You are hurt? ” 

“ Not badly. Go back.” Then, when she did 
not move, “ Have they gone? ” 

“ Yes; I am coming to you. Where are you? ” 

She heard a groan of protest; but overrode it. 

“Where are you? Can you strike a match?” 


7 6 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

“ I’ve used my last one. Wait, I am coming.” 

But Frances was already groping her way to- 
ward his voice. She was in a hall or passageway, 
apparently, running to the rear of the house. She 
crept slowly down it, keeping her hand on the wall 
to the left. At the end of twenty feet she encoun- 
tered a corner, and a blank wall ahead; and, follow- 
ing this with her hands, crossed the hall. On the 
other side was a wall, which, so far as she could 
reach, ran smooth and unbroken back toward the 
door. She was in a cul-de-sac. 

For an instant she paused in doubt; and the 
pause broke down her resolution. 

“ Mr. Fenn-Brook! ” She almost shrieked his 
name. For a moment there was no answer; then, 
faintly: 

“ Here, — to — the right. I am coming.” 

It was followed by the sound of a man strug- 
gling to his feet. Frances, fighting back her fear 
with tightly clenched teeth, began to work her way 
forward again, and reached a break in the wall — 
an open doorway. As she stopped there, vainly 
striving to sound the depths of the space beyond 
with her outstretched, groping arm, Fenn-Brook 
suddenly lurched against her. She gave a fright- 
ened gasp as the man touched her. But with the 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 77 

realization that it must be he, and with something 
definite given her to do, her strength of purpose 
was restored. 

“ Steady, please, we are all right now,” she 
urged. 

She stood half supporting him until her breath 
had returned; then, reaching for his arm, placed it 
about her neck. 

“ Come this way,” she said, gently, and with 
one hand round his body, the other touching the 
wall, she began to retrace her steps past the cul-de- 
sac and toward the entrance to the house. 

“ By Jove, you know it — is awfully silly,’’ he 
whispered, brokenly, “ but I believe I actually 
fainted. If ” 

“ Don’t talk,” she commanded. “ Lean on me 
more. It is only for a few steps. The door is 
somewhere just beyond — this place where the plas- 
ter has fallen. It — here ! ” With a great burst 
of relief Frances swung the door open and stag- 
gered with her burden out into the night. 

“ We will sit here until you get your strength 
back.” She freed herself and let Fenn-Brook sink 
gently upon the steps, supporting his back with her 
knee. “There; are you comfortable? Now let 
me see where you are hurt.” 


78 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

“ It is nothing,” he returned, with a palpable 
effort. “ Some one hit me on the head as they 
rushed out, I think, and — and I — that is quite all 
I know. It — it must have been a jolly good crack, 
must it not? They took me quite by surprise, you 
know.” 

Frances, in spite of her anxiety, smiled at the 
shamefaced concern with which he apologized for 
having succumbed. Running her hand over his 
head she found a bad swelling just above the tem- 
ple, but, to her relief, no cuts. He had evidently 
gone down at the first blow and been rendered un- 
conscious, but she saw that unless there was a frac- 
ture he could not be a badly injured man. The 
cool night air, in fact, was rapidly bringing him 
round, and after a short rest he was able to walk 
to the car with little assistance. The girl helped 
him into his seat and drew a long breath. Then 
she realized that her troubles were not yet at an 
end, — that their machine was as useless now as 
half an hour before. 

“ You are to settle down there and go to sleep,” 
she commanded, with a sudden pause, as she her- 
self was about to climb in. “ I am going into town 
to get help.” 

“ By Jove ! that gasolene,” he exclaimed, start- 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 79 

ing up. “I must have been quite knocked out, to 
forget it. But, I say ” 

But Frances had already turned upon her heel 
and was hurrying off toward the village. 

“ I say — please — only one moment,” he called. 

“ Is it something else that I can do for 
you before going?” she asked, with reproving 
severity. 

“ Oh, no. I am very comfortable indeed, thank 

you. But I Do you know, Miss Ware, that 

you are a very plucky sort of a woman? I — I 
am awfully in your debt, you know.” And though 
Frances could not see it, Fenn-Brook blushed like 
a schoolboy. 

“Nonsense,” she exclaimed, vigorously; and 
then, in an after-thought, her tone changing to one 
of a certain vague sadness, “ and if you are, I may 
give you the chance to repay me some time — in 
Warsaw.” 

With that thought in her mind, Frances went 
her long way in Sceaux; the thought, not that the 
mystery and danger of to-night might only be a 
warning of the life she would be forced to lead 
if her lover should return, but that, if she should 
need help, Fenn-Brook would be on hand to offer 
it. The future, though she could not tell why, 


80 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

seemed much the securer for this evening’s adven- 
ture. 

And as to Fenn-Brook himself: “ Now what the 
devil did she mean by that? ” he inquired of the 
darkness. “ She certainly meant something.” He 
decided that she was a woman with a history, in- 
teresting; and at the same time he resolved that, as 
his Majesty’s representative in the Polish Capital, 
he must exercise caution. With that he fell asleep, 
and was awakened only when a carriage drove up 
to the machine with Frances and a large can of 
gasolene inside it. He helped her transfer the 
fuel to the tank, and was about to crank up, when 
Frances interposed. 

“ Let me do it. You are not strong enough yet, 
and I want you to save your breath to tell me how 
it all happened. Go back to your place,” she 
commanded. Fenn-Brook laughingly acquiesced 
and returned to his seat. A moment later Frances 
climbed up beside him, and the car’s wheels once 
more began to turn. 

“ Now,” she said, briskly, with a sigh of relief. 

“There isn’t much to tell, I fear,” answered 
Fenn-Brook. “ I imagine I surprised some French 
officers selling their silly military secrets. They 
like to do that, you know. The opera bouffe mys- 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 81 

tery of it is a good change from the excitement of 
baccarat. It must have been that or — at any 
rate they were hardly ordinary thieves. I caught 
a glimpse of one man’s face before the light was 
blown out, and it wasn’t the face of a thief. And 
— I thought for a moment that it was familiar; at 
least that is my remembrance. It is all rather 
vague, in a way, you know. They took me quite 
by surprise.” 

“ Please begin at the beginning.” 

“ Why — why, it was all over so quickly that 
there seemed little difference between the beginning 
and the end. I saw a light in the house, you know, 
and a moving shadow at the window. So, of 
course, I knew the place was inhabited. Then, 
after I had rung two or three times without re- 
ceiving an answer I tried the door, and found it 
unlocked. It was dark inside, but there was a 
crack of light along the floor toward the rear and 
I walked back there. I knocked at a door I found 
— and — stampeded some council of war or other. 
One of the fellows hit me on the head as they 
came out ; I don’t know with what. That is about 
the whole story, except — except that when I came 
to I lighted my last match and found myself in a 
doorway. After the match went out I must have 


82 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

become confused and crawled back into the room 
instead of down the hall. Then I went off again, 
I imagine; and finally you came. By Jove, you 
know, it was plucky of you.” 

“ I saw all the people in the house scudding 
away like rabbits. There couldn’t be much danger 
after they were gone,” Frances returned, briefly. 
“ You say you recognized one of the men? ” 

“ Not recognized, exactly, though I am quite sure 
I had seen his face before. But I may well be 
mistaken, you know; I had only a glimpse of 
him.” He paused, as if trying to place the man’s 
identity, then began on another tack. “ Rather 
strange happening, for Paris, wasn’t it? I sup- 
pose, after all, we must assume them to have^been 
thieves or, at the most, anarchists. In Warsaw 
they would have been a lot of grandiloquent revo- 
lutionaries.” 

“ I — I imagine you run across many such mys- 
teries there,” she answered, rather tardily. 

Fenn-Brook laughed. “ Hundreds of them. It 
is an every-day matter, you know. Every group of 
peasants round a table in a wine shop is a knot 
of conspirators, in Warsaw; and when a Pole of 
the upper class gives a dinner, he writes the word 
‘ Plotting ’ in the lower corner of his invitation 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 83 

cards. Poor flighty devils! They cannot help it. 
It's born in them, you know, and then fostered and 
cultivated out of all proportion to their other 
instincts.” 

“ But ” 

“ I suppose you sympathize with them. Most 
Americans do, I understand. It is rather strange, 
that, in your pronounced worship of the will of 
the majority. Why, Miss Ware, there is not a 
Pole in Poland who has any other ambition than 
to be a martyr to the cause of the opposition. Just 
now they have something fairly tangible to fight 
against; the integrity of the three empires of which 
they are a part, you know. But even if their 
ridiculous kingdom were given back to them, they 
would still keep on; only in that case there would 
be quite a galaxy of oppositions instead of but one. 
Look back at the elections of the kings of Poland 
and the liberum veto! And as for their present 
high motives, what would you say had the French 
people in Louisiana been maintaining a constant 
rebellion for a hundred years, because the 
United States Government insists on printing its 
documents in English for them and uses an Eng- 
lish legend on its postage stamps? It ” 

“ But that is not a fair argument! ” she cried. 


84 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

“ You cannot compare our system of government 
with such ” 

“Such a beastly one as Russia’s? I admit it. 
But Germany is certainly well governed, and even 
there they have been forced to pass their compul- 
sory expatriation law for the Polish landlords. No, 
the trouble is with the Poles themselves. They don’t 
know, and never did know, how to be governed, 
and they refuse to learn. For my part I’ve an 
abiding faith in the theory that every government 
automatically regulates its gifts, not by what the 
people deserve, but by their ability to appreciate 
the gift’s value. Sometimes the people take more, 
as in the French Revolution; and sometimes an in- 
dividual ruler tries to give less, as when George the 
Third lost America for us. But violations on either 
side have always been costly and I know of no gov- 
ernment which has been either broader or nar- 
rower than its people and still survived. And if 
the Poles have had a century of martial law, it has 
been because nothing else could bring them to ac- 
quiescence in the established order of things; or in 
any order at all, for that matter. Even Alexander 
I, with all his liberal ideas, realized they were only 
hopeless revolutionaries. I — it is a rather vigor- 
ous lecture, this, coming from a man who has just 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 8 5 

been knocked on the head, isn’t it? ” he ended, with 
a laugh. 

“ It is a new point of view for me,” answered 
Frances, thoughtfully. “ You are asking the Poles 
to manufacture patriotism for the country that 
despoiled them of their independence.” 

“No; only that they stop dreaming and break- 
ing the peace and try to become good citizens in- 
stead of rebels. It is hard on the Poles, of course, 
but in the diplomatic school, you know, they teach 
us to place expediency above sentiment.” 

Frances did not reply. She was living over 
again the evenings in that tent in the Trans-Caspian 
desert, where all that Fenn-Brook now condemned 
had been rehearsed as the noblest aim a man could 
have. Could that aim be weak and visionary, 
after all, as the Englishman would have it? Often 
as Frances had doubted the wisdom of her love 
for Zembec, she had never once wavered in her 
enthusiasm for his principles. And she would 
not, must not, do so now. It was the foundation 
upon which the superstructure of her love was 
built. She resolutely drove the subject from her 
mind. Nor could Fenn-Brook determine whether 
the sigh he heard was one of doubt and dread, or 
only of some mysterious regret. 


86 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

As they entered the streets of Paris, Fenn-Brook 
looked at his watch. 

“ It is only eleven o’clock,” he remarked. “We 
are not over four hours late; which, considering 
all that has happened, is fairly good, you know! 
But I fear your brother will take off the little that 
is left of my poor head.” 

“ You needn’t worry about that,” she smiled. 
“ Howard has great faith in my ability to take 
care of myself.” 

Nevertheless, when the machine finally stopped 
in front of the house, they found both Ware and 
the chauffeur anxiously awaiting them at the door. 
Fenn-Brook apologized as well as he could for 
the delay, but refused to make the amends sug- 
gested by Ware — to come in and smoke a cigar 
with him. 

“ I must leave Miss Ware to tell you the story 
in full,” he laughed. “ I’ve a beastly head, you 
know. That chap must have had ” 

The chauffeur, who had already taken his place 
in the car, interrupted him. 

“ Pardon, Mademoiselle,” said he to Frances. 
“ You have lost your pin. I found it here in the 
seat.” 

He held out a small object to Fenn-Brook, who 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 87 

happened to be nearest him. Both Ware and 
Frances could testify to the start the Englishman 
gave on seeing it. Then, swiftly and searchingly, 
he turned to Frances. 

“ Does this thing belong to you? ” 

Without surrendering the object, he held it out 
for her to examine. It was a little gold cross 
with a serpent, wearing a crown, coiled about its 
horizontal arm. 

“ No, it’s not mine. I wonder ” 

“ By Jove, it’s funny,” he exclaimed, rapidly. 
“ The thing is so very like. But that it should 
turn up ” He stopped short, and then, with- 

out explanation, slipped the emblem into his pocket. 

“ Good-night,” he said. “ May I have your 
man take me to my hotel? ” 


CHAPTER IX 


W ARE went over to call on Fenn-Brook 
the next day, to inquire about his condi- 
tion. To his surprise he found that the 
Englishman had already left for Warsaw. 

“ He sent us word that he had been wired from 
the Foreign Office to hurry back to his post and 
had no time even to call at our rooms before leav- 
ing,” said Mrs. Markham, later. “ So in spite 
of her promise, Frances had all there was of Mr. 
Fenn-Brook on this trip.” 

Frances was inwardly relieved at his departure. 
It was as if a temptation had been removed from 
her path — a temptation to which she had already 
once succumbed. “ Poor flighty devils; they can- 
not help it. It is born in them.” The words 
rankled, and she felt that in listening to them she 
had been disloyal to her lover and his cause. She 
wished that Zembec might have been there to 
confute the Englishman’s generalities, and yet was 
vaguely glad that he had not been put to such a 
test. For Fenn-Brook, though she would not admit 
88 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 89 

it, had a way of inspiring confidence in the sound- 
ness of his views. In Count Michael’s tone there 
had always sounded a note of appeal; in the Eng- 
lishman’s it was one of guarded judgment. And, 
short as her talk with him had been, it left her 
doubtful and distressed. 

Her anxiety assumed a new form. It was no 
longer fear for Zembec that troubled her; it was 
distrust of him. She had accepted the man at his 
own valuation. She did not now waver in her be- 
lief that his actions had been honest and patriotic. 
But that belief was hardly more than the skeleton 
of the faith which he had once inspired, when the 
enthusiasm of the man had seemed only the reflec- 
tion of the glory of his cause. The world has 
never extended much sympathy to misguided 
martyrs. And though Frances’s devotion was un- 
swayed, Fenn-Brook’s words had touched the quick 
in the suggestion that the Pole could ever be 
divested of the heroic grandeur in which she had 
clothed him — or in which, with her permission, he 
had clothed himself. 

It was while Frances’s thoughts were in this 
chaotic state, two days after Fenn-Brook’s de- 
parture, that she and her brother were guests at a 
dinner at the American Embassy. In accordance 


90 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

with his plan of forcing amusements upon his sister 
until she recovered her spirits, Ware had welcomed 
the invitation and insisted, against Frances’s pro- 
test, upon its acceptance. When the night came 
she was sorry that she had let him have his way, 
and incidentally prayed that she might be placed 
between two ancient and blase diplomats who 
would devote their time to gormandizing and 
leave her to her own thoughts. Her wish was not 
granted. 

Though she did not recognize the fact, the 
Fates were beginning to press Frances hard. 

“ Miss Ware — Count Pehlen,” said her hostess, 
in introduction of a tall, rather sallow-faced young 
man, with a thin black mustache. “ The Count is 

to take you out, you know. He is Ah, Lady 

Burnleigh; it was good of you to make the effort,” 
and she turned to an entering guest. 

“ He is — what? ” asked Frances, laughingly, of 
her companion. 

“ I don’t know, I’m sure, unless she intended to 
give you my credentials,” he returned, lightly. “ I 
will do that myself. I am an under secretary in 
the Russian Embassy and,” with a bow, “ a devoted 
admirer of beauty.” 

“ Oh, yes ? ” responded Frances, non-committally. 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 91 

She was not sure that she liked either the compli- 
ment or the man who made it. Both smacked too 
much of the professional lover; a type she had 
seen before on the Continent, and abhorred. 

“ Yes,” he echoed, easily; but being not at all 
dull in such matters, he pressed his last qualifica- 
tion no further. “ Second Secretary. Do you 
know Russia ? ” 

“ Only so much of it as you have been able to 
infuse into Trans-Caspia and Turkestan,” she an- 
swered. “ My brother and I spent this last spring 
there. I have never been in the north; in St. 
Petersburg or Moscow, I mean. You Russians 
count those two cities the Empire, do you not?” 

Count Pehlen laughed. “ Most of us do, I fear. 
I am very much handicapped, myself, in having to 
claim Warsaw as my birthplace.” 

“ Warsaw ! ” 

“ Yes.” Then, as the note of astonishment in 
her exclamation reached him, “ Why? ” 

“You are not — a Pole? ” 

“ I’m afraid I am. Are there any amends 
which ” 

“ A Pole — and in the Russian diplomatic serv- 
ice? ” she asked, wonderingly. 

“ Why — oh, I see,” he responded, easily. “ We 


92 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 
are not all like that — all recalcitrant, you know. 
We ” 

“ Oh, I thought you were.” 

As Count Pehlen led Frances into the dining 
room he rather regretted as a waste of words that 
preliminary attempt at love-making. She was a 
beautiful woman, but stupid. And they were no 
sooner seated than he incontinently turned to Lady 
Burnleigh, on his left, and flirted to his heart’s 
content. 

Nor did Frances’s other neighbor find her less 
dull. She sat out the main part of the dinner with- 
out speaking more than an occasional word. But 
she was thinking. If Fenn-Brook’s sweeping argu- 
ment, two nights before, had dealt her ideals a 
bitter blow, this Pole’s light commentary upon 
some of his countrymen had been doubly cruel. 
Was it true? Was the man whose aims she wor- 
shipped an outcast, a renegade, even among his 
own fellows? She did not, could not, believe it. 
And finally she determined upon the bold step of 
seeking proof. 

“ Count Pehlen,” she asked, when there was 
opportunity, “ did you know Count Zembec in 
Warsaw? ” Strength of resolution held her voice 
steady, though her heart was throbbing. 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 93 
“Stanislaus? Very well indeed. I ” 

“ No, not Stanislaus; that must be some relative. 
I mean Michael.” 

“ I beg you to pardon me, Miss Ware,” he re- 
turned. “ Michael Zembec fell into trouble, you 
know, and was sent to Siberia. We Russians do 
not like to talk of people to whom that has hap- 
pened.” 

“ But Count Zembec escaped, did he not?” she 
persisted. 

“ How do you You really must excuse 

me.” He turned abruptly to Lady Burnleigh, and 
Frances met her defeat as she had met so many 
others. But when the men joined the women after 
their cigars Pehlen at once approached her. 

“ Have you seen the conservatory, Miss 
Ware?” he asked. “Your Ambassador is fa- 
mous for his orchids. Let us look at them.” 

Frances understood. A Russian might permit 
himself to speak of things to her apart which he 
could not venture to touch upon at a table lined 
with guests. 

“ Thank you. I should like to look at them,” 
she returned, quietly, in her low voice. “ Where 
are they?” And Pehlen himself was deceived. 

No sooner were they alone, nevertheless, than, 


94 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

after one sweeping glance into the shadows of the 
plants, he turned upon her abruptly. 

“ You said that Michael Zembec had escaped. 
How do you know it? ” 

Frances, though unprepared for such an on- 
slaught, retained her presence of mind. 

“ Has he not? ” she asked, simply. 

“ He has. How do you know it? ” 

“ I must have read of it in the papers. Really, 
Count Pehlen ” 

“ News concerning the escape of Siberian con- 
victs,” he returned, slowly, without heeding her 
protest, “ is not published in the papers, Miss 
Ware, whether they be American or French or 
Russian. How do you know it? ” 

Frances had to decide quickly. She had made 
a serious blunder, and she realized it. Such things 
were not printed. This present conversation could 
be stopped simply by retreat to the drawing room ; 
but that would do no good. That thoughtless ad- 
mission of her knowledge of hidden events could 
not be explained to-morrow any more easily than 
to-night. Her companion would not let it drop. 
The Russian police would trace her movements 
and find that she had come direct to Paris from 
Marseilles — and from Batoum to Marseilles direct 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 95 

— and from Turkestan to Batoum — with no other 
opportunity to have met him — and so that Zembec 
was in Turkestan. The whole chain of evidence 
flashed before her mind. And distantly she heard 
Count Pehlen repeat his demand. 

u How do you know it? ” 

Frances braced herself to the struggle. 

“Your right to ask?” she inquired, quickly. 

Count Pehlen bent over, smelled a rose, and came 
to a swift conclusion. 

“ The right,” he answered, gently, “ the right 
of a friend.” 

“ Count Michael’s friend? ” 

“ If we must limit it to that. Michael’s, at any 
rate.” 

“ And for credentials, I believe, you said you 
were Second Secretary to the Russian Lega- 
tion.” 

“And an admirer of beauty; more than ever, 
now, Mademoiselle. I beg you not to forget that. 
There is one other which I did not present at the 
time.” 

“Which is ?” 

“ That I am a Pole.” 

“ In the Russian diplomatic service, please,” cor- 
rected Frances, with steady sarcasm. 


96 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

“ Yes; in the service. Do you know the charge, 
Miss Ware, of which Michael was found guilty? ” 
“ I do,” she answered, firmly. 

“ Very well. You seem to doubt my good faith 
— to demand proof when my word should be suffi- 
cient. I shall give it to you to-morrow, Miss Ware. 
Will you be at home about eleven o’clock? Thank 
you. At eleven o’clock to-morrow, then, I will 
put my career and — and its alternative, Siberia, 
Mademoiselle — in your hands. May I trust this 
rose to one of them now ? ” 

Frances took the rose. Later on, however, 
Count Pehlen saw it lying forgotten on a table. 


CHAPTER X 


W HEN Frances sat down to breakfast the 
next morning she was rather surprised to 
see by her plate a bulky letter in a heavy 
blue envelope bearing the legend and seal of the 
British Consulate in Warsaw. Inside was a short 
note, together with a small object carefully 
wrapped in tissue paper. Frances opened the lat- 
ter first. The object was the little gold cross 
with its crowned serpent they had found that night, 
and about which Fenn-Brook’s manner had cast 
such an air of mystery. Why should he be sending 
it to her? With a feeling of uneasiness for which 
she could hardly have found legitimate cause, 
Frances took up his note and read: 

My dear Miss Ware: 

Even though you say this trinket did not origi- 
nally belong to you, it was found in your auto- 
mobile and should therefore be regarded as your 
property. It is not of an attractive design, and I 
doubt whether you would care to wear it in public. 
97 


98 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

But I am sending it you (under the Consulate seal, 
to avoid any trouble with the Russian Postal 
Police) as a slight memento of our adventure. 

I trust to see you here in Warsaw some day, and 
even hope that you may get into some scrape here, 
so that I can repay you in kind for your cour- 
ageous assistance the other night. 

Very sincerely, 

Alex. Swift Fenn-Brook. 

Frances gave an unconscious sigh of relief at its 
import. “ Though I cannot understand why he 
should be so cold and formal in tone,” she mused. 
“ After his strange behavior on seeing the thing, it 
almost seems as if he were afraid of it. Wear the 
hideous object! Indeed I wouldn’t.” 

Nevertheless she studied it with curiosity. 
Hideous the design was, without doubt. But the 
workmanship, at least, was remarkable. The cross 
itself, about an inch and a half in height, was of 
heavy solid gold, with square, sharply-cut edges 
and plain, highly-polished faces. All adornment 
had been saved for the crowned serpent whose body 
was coiled again and again about the cross-bar; a 
hissing yellow snake, with a blood-red line of tiny 
rubies running the length of each flank, bordered 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 99 

by a thin strip of green enamel. The fore-part 
of his body, swinging free from one end of the 
cross, was bent back until it had passed the upright, 
from behind which the flat, crowned head, set 
with cold, crafty diamond eyes, glared out at the 
holder. 

“ I wonder less how it came into the automobile 
than as to what it means,” remarked Frances, as 
she showed it to her brother. “ Such a thing must 
either be the result of a morbid fantasy or else have 
serious significance. I don’t believe any work- 
man would have made it on the mere chance of 
finding a purchaser. The subject is simply sacri- 
legious.” 

“ Either that or impressive,” he assented. “ It 
would do well as an emblem of the Christian 
peasants in Turkey. But then the snake would 
be rigged up with a crescent in some way; not with 
a crown. If you wish to read any such significance 
into it, you must look for some pagan kingdom 
where the Church is under a cloud — China, for 
instance. But China is a long way from Paris.” 

“ Don’t chaff. It is really quite serious. Mr. 
Fenn-Brook thought so, himself, when he first saw 
the pin. And those men at the villa were certainly 
conspirators of some sort. It must have come from 


ioo PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 


them, of course. Mr. Fenn-Brook probably fell 
against one of them as he went down, and caught 
it in his coat or sleeve. I ” 

A thought suddenly struck Ware. 

“ By Jove, Frances ! ” he exclaimed, “ I half 
believe you are right. That thing might easily be 
the emblem of some plot of the Jesuits who have 
been turned out of Germany, or of some society 
with aims against the King of Italy — to restore 
the power to the Vatican, I mean. If any such 
performance really is on the boards and you have 
stumbled against it, I — I advise you to destroy 
that pin.” 

“ I think I shall,” she answered, slowly. 

But she did not. She carried it into the sitting 
room, and was then called out to give certain direc- 
tions to the housekeeper. When she went she 
thoughtlessly left the mysterious emblem lying on 
the table. 

Count Pehlen arrived punctually at the ap- 
pointed hour of eleven. On his being announced 
Frances meditated for an instant whether it would 
not be well to have her brother present at their 
interview. She was inwardly somewhat afraid of 
the man. But, with a swift gesture of decision, 
she resolved that having started her Polish ad- 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE ioi 


ventures alone, she would see them through alone, 
and had the maid usher him in. 

44 You see how very prompt I am, Miss Ware,” 
the Secretary familiarly began, ignoring or non- 
observant of the air of cold formality with which 
she motioned him to be seated. 44 I am anxious, 
more than anxious, to return to your good graces. 
I fear you both misjudged me and misread my 
motives last night.” 

44 That has nothing to do with the matter in 
hand,” she answered, without smiling. 44 You say 
that you are a friend of Count Zembec. If you 
are, I may be able to give you news of him — 
enough so that you can help him.” 

44 Ah! Then he is not dead, after all? ” 
“Dead!” 

Pehlen’s mouth curved with a slight smile of 
self-satisfaction. 44 That was the rumor, but — 
of course it was only rumor.” 

44 When did you hear it? ” 

44 Six months or so ago,” he answered, promptly. 
44 You have seen him since then? ” 

Frances breathed more easily. 44 You were to 
bring proofs of your friendship for him, I think,” 
she returned, firmly ignoring his question. 44 Have 
you them? ” 


io2 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

“ Of course. Else how — Do you know 
Michael’s handwriting, Miss Ware?” He took 
from his breast-pocket a number of documents. 
“ If you do, so much the better. But at any rate I 
can easily establish the authenticity of this letter 
by what is to follow.” 

He handed the topmost paper to Frances. It 
was a letter, or rather a note, written in French, 
in a hand which, had it showed less haste, would 
have been bold and firm. 

Since the meeting on Tuesday night I have 
received indications that our plans are known. 
Leave for Vienna to-morrow and take this packet 
with you. It contains bonds and stocks. I also 
enclose power of* attorney. Am sending others 
to Berne by a servant. Destroy lists of members 
and insignia. Must stay here myself until — Cos- 
sacks in courtyard. Z. 

“The ending was rather tragic; wasn’t it?” 
remarked Pehlen, when she had finished reading. 
“ He gave the certificates and note to a servant, 
who managed to avoid the search to which every 
one else in the house was subjected upon Michael’s 
arrest. They reached me that night. In the 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 103 

morning I left Poland for my post. I was sta- 
tioned in Vienna at that time, you see. Here are 
the securities. You will find his name on many of 
them; which proves that the letter is not a for- 
gery.” He handed Frances the package. 

She gave them but a slight examination, then 
held out her hand. “ I am sorry I mistrusted you,” 
she said, frankly. “ But even now I do not en- 
tirely understand.” 

“ About the securities? That was only a precau- 
tion he should have taken before. Very many of 
the wealthier men in my poor country have their 
safe-deposit boxes in Paris or Vienna or London. 
It leaves them better prepared for emergencies — 
such as Michael’s. He was always too optimistic, 
poor fellow.” 

“ No, it is not that I mean. It is — how, with 
such sympathies, you happen to be in the service 
of the Russian Government.” 

Count Pehlen hesitated, then smiled, gently. 
“ My name is untainted, as yet,” he answered, 
“ and — and it is sometimes advantageous to have 
knowledge of Russian affairs at first hand. You 
see, Mademoiselle, I am very frank with you.” 

“ I see,” she assented, calmly. She handed the 
certificates back to her visitor, but continued 


io 4 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

thoughtfully fingering Zembec’s letter. “ There is 
one thing more. You asked me last night how I 
knew that Count Michael had escaped. How did 
you, yourself? Have you heard from him ? ” 

“ No, otherwise I should not be so anxious. I 
learned it officially.” 

“ In connection with your duties as Secretary of 
the Embassy here?” asked Frances, quickly. 

Pehlen broke into a hearty laugh. “ What a 
suspicious mind you have, Mademoiselle ! ” he pro- 
tested. “ No, not here; in St. Petersburg.” 

“ Then the Embassy,” she went on, thought- 
fully, without heeding his outburst, “ the Embassy 
has not been warned to look out for him here in 
Paris?” 

“ Is he here ? ” quickly interrupted Pehlen. 

Frances shrugged her shoulders. “ Not that I 
know of.” 

She walked to the window and looked out. The 
man must either be trusted or distrusted. She dis- 
liked him; disliked his suave, oily manner, his in- 
sinuating, confident smile, the touch of insincerity 
in his black eyes. He was not the man whom she 
would pick out as Zembec’s friend. And yet, that 
letter and those certificates! They formed the 
proof for which she had asked, and her possession 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 105 

of which, as he had intimated, could send him to 
Siberia. And he had voluntarily intrusted them 
to her. That could be only an act of good 
faith. 

“ Count Zembec,” she said, finally, without turn- 
ing, and as if the words were wrung from her, “ is 
in Turkestan.” 

Pehlen started. “ In Turkestan ! ” 

“ Yes. Or at least I left him there, two months 
ago, trying to find some way of crossing the 
frontier. He has not done so yet — has not reached 
safety yet — or I should have heard from him. 
Have you means of help? ” 

u I do not know. Tell me about it first; all the 
circumstances.” 

Frances, once embarked upon her course, held 
back nothing except the story of her personal rela- 
tions with the fugitive. And what those might 
perhaps be, Pehlen guessed from her repeated as- 
sertion that Zembec would have come straight to 
her had he already escaped. When she had fin- 
ished, he reached forward and gently took her 
hand. 

“ I thank you, Mademoiselle, in the name of 
Poland, for your kindness to my poor country- 
man,” he murmured, raising her fingers to his Ups. 


io6 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 


“ I wish we had more women such as you in our 
sympathy.” Then, smoothly, “ But I must see 
what I can do; set the machinery in motion. We 
have plenty of agents — partisans — in Turkestan; 
peasants and the like, you know, who have been 
sent there as colonists. I shall begin at once.” He 
walked over to the chair where he had deposited 
his hat and gloves. “Oh, that letter! Would 
you mind ” 

He held out his hand for it. 

“ Count Pehlen,” responded Frances, quietly, 
“ I think I shall keep that letter until — until I find 
whether this conversation results in any harm to 
Count Michael.” 

To her surprise, instead of protesting he merely 
smiled. “ Good ! That is clever, really clever. A 
beautiful woman is a powerful conspirator. 
Mademoiselle, you will soon have all the Poles in 
Poland under your thumb. You are acting in good 
faith?” 

“ I am.” 

“ Very well. I gladly entrust the letter to your 
safe keeping. Good-bye.” 

He walked to the door, then suddenly turned. 

“ Oh, I forgot ! If you hear from Michael you 
must let me know. I will give you my address — 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 107 

my private address, you know, not the Embassy. 
Have you a pencil ?” 

Frances went to the writing desk: the Count to- 
ward the table. Something lying there caught his 
eye. He glanced quickly back at the girl, then 
down at the table again, and an enigmatical smile 
stole over his face. As she returned with the 
pencil, he took up a book and rather ostentatiously 
placed it over the little cross which Frances had 
forgetfully left there. 

“ When I came into the room, Mademoiselle,” 
he remarked softly, “ you did not know whether I 
came as friend or enemy. I would not leave that 
pin lying about, if I were you, where it could be 
seen by the one as easily as by the other.” 

“ What do you mean? ” demanded Frances. 

“ Nothing. A mere friendly piece of advice, 
Mademoiselle. Here is the address. Send word 
there in case you hear from him.” 

Again he raised her fingers to his lips; and was 
gone. For some moments Frances stood gazing 
at the door through which he had departed; then 
sank wearily into a chair and tried to think things 
out. Mystery, doubt — doubt, mystery. She 
seemed unable to escape them. In her trouble she 
had sought to learn something of Count Zembec 


io8 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 


from this man; something of the Zembec of the 
Past. Instead, with one thoughtless remark she 
had placed herself on the defensive; had learned 
nothing, or nothing except that her lover’s friend 
descended to the contemptible; and in return she 
had betrayed her secret, herself fallen under sus- 
picion. In spite of the proofs which she had been 
allowed to see of Count Pehlen’s close connection 
with Zembec, she could not help distrusting the 
man, could not but fear him. He had been over- 
complaisant, too ready with his suave, self-confident 
smile, too full of innuendoes and glib of tongue. 

But would she find Count Michael’s other 
friends, would she find Count Michael, himself, 
any different? Were they not all, as Mr. Fenn- 
Brook had said, a lot of poor, misguided trans- 
cendentalists, unable to distinguish dreams from 
reality? “ Poor flighty devils. They cannot help 
it.” Fenn-Brook’s half-contemptuous, half-pitying 
exclamation would not be ousted from her memory. 
At any rate she herself would help it. Whether 
Zembec came back or not, she would keep her own 
hands free. And she would wash them, now, of 
the taint which that cross had already put upon 
them. Then, if he did come back 

Frances took the emblem from under the book 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 109 

beneath which Pehlen had concealed it and, after a 
moment’s consideration, turned to the stove. The 
fire was laid, but not lighted. She placed the cross 
on the coals, and went back to the table for a 
match. 

As she knelt down to touch flame to paper, the 
door opened. Frances looked round; then, with a 
little gasp, dropped the match and struggled to her 
feet. In the doorway stood a handsome, black- 
eyed, stalwart man, six feet or more in height, 
clean shaven, well groomed. The vision was but 
momentary. An instant more and she found her- 
self in Zembec’s arms, felt her lips respond to his. 


CHAPTER XI 


T HE battle which had been waging between 
Frances’s head and heart was won and 
lost in that moment. All her compunc- 
tion, doubt, distrust, were swept away in the great 
torrent of joy. Neither repentance nor regret could 
stand in its path. She did not banish them from 
her mind; she forgot them; forgot all except that 
he was there, safe, with his arms about her, loving 
and beloved. Had she had time to think, had he 
written beforehand, even an hour before, that he 
was coming, the world might have gone very dif- 
ferently with Frances Ware. But the touch of the 
theatrical which, without involving his sincerity, 
underlay all Zembec’s actions brought victory to 
him that day, victory clean and absolute. And in 
token of her surrender Frances gently released her- 
self from the man’s arms, gazed at him through 
dimmed eyes, with head thrown back, and drew 
him to her again. 

“ Oh, Michael! Oh, Michael!” 

For minutes she had no other words. 


IIO 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 1 1 1 

And then came the flood of questions and an- 
swers bearing on all that had happened during 
the three months gone. “ You give me no chance,” 
laughed Zembec, finally. “ Let me begin at the 
beginning and tell it all at once.” 

Frances fetched from her room the map of 
Turkestan on which she had tried to trace his 
wanderings. 

“ Show me on this, first,” she commanded, 
spreading it out upon their knees. “ Which of 
these routes did you follow?” 

Zembec glanced at the confused, thumb-marked 
chart, and caught her to him again. “ You angel ! 
You have been trying to follow me from day to 
day!” he exclaimed; while the map, unheeded, 
slipped to the floor. 

“ I did until a month ago,” she laughed. “ It 
grew too complicated at last, and I made up my 
mind that it was of no use — that I would simply 
have to wait.” 

Zembec kissed her. “ It was long for me to wait 
for this, dearest,” he said, gently. 

“ But it is your own fault,” she declared, a little 
proudly. “ I was ready that last night in the 
desert, had you not been too quixotic to hear me.” 

“Not quixotic: honest,” he protested. “It 


1 12 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 


would have been unfair, unmanly, to bind you 
then, when I knew nothing of what might happen 
to me before we would be together again. Ah, but 
you do not know, Frances, how much I longed for 
you all that night in the sand — and during all the 
long nights that followed.” 

“ I know, dear,” she whispered. Then she 
pushed him gently away. “ But show me your 
route; I want to follow every step.” 

Zembec brought himself to earth once more. 
“ Which do you think it was? ” 

“ Through Persia,” she decided. 

“ You are partly right, but only partly. Your 
lines stop too soon. I — I had to cross all Persia, 
to Bushire. Then I found a steamer to Aden, and 
from Aden I came back by the P. & O.” 

“And the Russian frontier?” she asked, anx- 
iously. 

Zembec hesitated. “ It is not a pleasant story,” 
he admitted, finally. 

“ Please tell it. Tell me all.” 

“ You have the right to know. I stole a man’s 
passport.” 

“Stole!” 

“ Yes. Please do not misjudge me. I had to. 
I had to get away to come to you. What means 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 113 

would that end not have justified, dearest? To 
come to you! And when I met the man, and 

noticed the resemblance between us ” 

“ You took it by force? ” 

“ I — I’m afraid there was no other way. After 
leaving you that night — that blessed night! — I 
made straight for the mountains, to cross into 
Persia. I hoped to circle the guards at the frontier. 
But it was impossible. The Russian fort lay in 
what was almost a chasm, and though I sought 
long for some path which would lead me round it, 
I did so knowing that my plan was really infeasible. 
Then, when defeat was staring me in the face, I 
met that man. Fie was a Russian who had settled 
near Meshed, in Persia; a cotton-planter, prob- 
ably; and he was coming up the valley on his way 
from Askhabad. I stopped him with some ques- 
tion — I have forgotten what — and then the idea 
seized me. It was done in no time. I am strong, 
very strong, you know. I pulled him off his horse, 
and bound and searched him. Then I put a band- 
age on his eyes and turned him round a few times 
so that he should lose his sense of direction and be 
unable to say whether I had gone forward or back. 
I left him propped up against a rock, with some 
water and bread at his side. The pass is not very 


1 14 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

much frequented, but there are always one or 
two caravans a day over it, and I knew he would 
be found before harm could come to him. The 
danger was only that some one would happen by 
too soon. But I had to run that risk. I caught 
his horse and rode back into the oasis and up the 
next pass. The man’s passport was viseed ready 
for use, and this time the frontier guards gave me 
no trouble. After that the path was simple. I 
skirted round Meshed, and finally joined a caravan 
going south. It was slow travelling, terribly slow, 
but finally I reached Bushire, with enough money 
still in my pocket to buy my passage to Aden. 
Then I worked my way to Brindisi — stoking. Ah, 
but it was hot down there in the hold, while we 
were passing through the Red Sea ! ” 

Zembec paused, and gazed at Frances with an 
expression in his eyes which may have been of 
anxiety. Then he added quickly, “ I sent the Rus- 
sian’s papers back to him from Aden, with the 
money I obtained for his horse.” 

Frances pressed a little tighter the hand she 
held. “ What hardships you have endured for the 
sake of liberty! ” she murmured. 

“ I love it, dearest,” he answered, simply. 
“ And yet — not as much as I love you.” 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 1 1 5 

“ Even the liberty of Poland? ” 

“ Even that of Poland,” he smiled. 

For the moment no response came from Frances; 
but the blue of her eyes deepened with earnestness. 
She placed her two hands upon his shoulders. 
“ Michael,” she whispered, gravely, “ will you 
promise me to remember having said that? Some 
day I may remind you of it.” 

Before he could answer, she had escaped the 
falling shadow. “ But nothing of such things 
now,” she exclaimed, hastily. “ We must not let 
worries mar the joy of this first hour. We must 
forget that there is even such a word as Poland. 
Tell me more — more of yourself. You seem so 
prosperous. To be very mundane, where did you 
get those clothes?” 

Zembec glanced down at himself and laughed. 
“ They are not much like that poor old khalat — or 
the things Joseph selected, are they? Do you know 
I wore Joseph’s suit throughout my travels, from 
Askhabad to Paris? What a relief it was to get 
into some decent things once more! When the 
tailor brought these to my rooms, three days ago, 
I assure you I nearly wept for joy.” 

“ Three days ago ! ” she exclaimed. u Do 
you mean to say that you have been in Paris 


n6 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 
three days and only came to me this morn- 
ing? ” 

“ I have been here longer than that,” he replied, 
smiling. “ A week. But I could not come to you 
before. Do you remember what my promise was, 
that night — that I would stay away until I could 
ask you honorably for your love? There has been 
much, very much, for me to do — beyond making 
myself presentable in the matter of clothes,” he 
interpolated, with a laugh. “ I have had to search 
out my friends and get some money which I had 
sent here before my arrest; and, above all, to find 
proofs for you that I am what I represent myself 
to be.” 

“ But I need no further proof than those I 
have,” interposed Frances, proudly. 

“ You believe that, dearest, and I thank you for 
it. But you have only the word of an outcast. It 
is not enough to stake your happiness upon; and 
I — my love alone would not satisfy your brother, 
even though you yourself were content. I do not 
know that I can even now reassure him. It is not 
easy, beloved, to establish one’s self when one has 
the record of Siberia to conceal. I must still stay 
in hiding, still live under a false name.” 

“Why?” she demanded, impulsively. “Now 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 117 

that you are in Paris you are certainly safe, are you 
not? Why not come out boldly, under your true 
colors? Oh, Michael, if you knew how I hate it, 
this mystery, this constant concealment, this living 
a lie. Why — why not give it up? Why not try 
to think that it is to me — for me — that you have 
come back, and be content? ” 

Zembec drew the woman to his arms and strove 
to kiss the pleading from her eyes. “ Content! ” 
he murmured. “ Content ! Could man have more, 
Frances, than you have given me — given me 
though you know me only as a poor, suppliant 
fugitive, a vagabond of the desert, fearing the 
sound of his own name? There will be very little 
more of secrecy, dearest, only very little more. 
Is it so great a matter, just a few days? After 
that, I — we will shout ‘ Zembec ’ from the house- 
tops; shall we not? Unless ” He hesitated; 

then, lower still, “ Frances, would you refuse, if 
the occasion should arise, to marry me — to live for- 
ever — under some adopted name? ” 

She broke away from his grasp and gazed stead- 
ily into his eyes. “ What do you mean?” she 
asked. All the warmth had suddenly vanished 
from her voice. 

“Nothing,” he responded, quickly. “That is, 


1 1 8 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

such a demand is hardly apt to be made upon us. 
But it may be, you know, that the guards of that 
Siberian train covered up their carelessness by con- 
cealing the fact of my escape. If they did, Count 
Michael Zembec is still in Siberia, and — it would 
be advantageous for him to remain there. It 
would help me in my ” 

“ You can rest content in that regard,” she in- 
terrupted with relief. “ Your escape is known — 
at least to the Russian authorities.” 

“What makes you think so?” he asked, with 
disappointment which could not be concealed. 

“ Your friend, Count Pehlen, told me so.” 

Zembec sprang to his feet. 

“Count Pehlen!” he cried. “Is he in Paris? 
You know him? You have talked with him of 
me?” 

Frances nodded. “ A little,” she replied. “ I 
met him a few nights ago at the American Em- 
bassy, and learned that you knew each other and 
that you had common interests. He was here this 
morning, only a few minutes before you came. I 
thought, you know, that he might be able to help 
you; and so, after he had given me proof that he is 
really your friend, I told him where we had 
parted,” 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 119 

Her lover scarcely heard her. He was pacing 
the room in manifest excitement. “ Pehlen here, 
here in Paris ! ” he kept exclaiming to himself. 
“It is a stroke of fortune; a stroke of fortune. 

There must be ” He turned sharply to her. 

“ He is at the Russian Embassy? ” 

“ Its Second Secretary, he told me,” she an- 
swered, rather mystified by his impetuosity. “ But 

he does not live there. His address is 

Where did I put it? ” 

She arose to look for it, and Zembec, following 
her direction, glanced down at the table by which 
he had halted. “Is this it?” he asked, picking 
up the slip of paper which Count Pehlen had left 
there. He read the address in an undertone. 

“ I must go there at once,” he announced, briefly, 
and slipped the paper into his pocket. Then, bend- 
ing the girl’s head toward him, he kissed her, 
tenderly. “ Until three o’clock, dearest. Then 
I shall have you all for my own, with your brother’s 
consent. For Pehlen will vouch for me.” 

She put both arms about his neck and smiled 
proudly into his handsome eyes. “ I am your own 
already, Michael, whether Howard and Count 
Pehlen wish it or not ; all your own.” 


i2o PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 


Ware hardly knew the starry-eyed woman who 
sat opposite him at luncheon that day. He made 
no comment, for he had long since learned that 
when Frances saw fit to speak of herself she would 
do so; not before. And despite her overflowing 
happiness, Frances did not at once enlighten him as 
to its cause. It was not easy to admit to her 
brother the secret she had so long concealed, the 
semi-deception which she had been practicing for 
months. Twice she essayed to tell him, and twice 
the words failed her; not through embarrassment, 
but because she knew that he was sensitive and 
would be pained by her previous lack of confidence ; 
and more, because to tell him of her love for Zem- 
bec would be to tell him that their long years of 
daily companionship were at an end. 

When she did finally confess to him, it was in the 
simplest way. The dessert had been removed, 
and Frances bent over to light the coffee-machine. 

“ I had an unexpected visitor to-day,” she re- 
marked, quietly, as she busied herself with the 
wick. 

“ Who? ” 

“ Count Zembec.” 

“ Zembec ! That Pole, here in Paris ! Why 
didn’t you let me know ? I should have been glad 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 12 1 


to see him again. How did he manage to 
escape ? ” 

“ It’s a long story. He will tell it himself this 
afternoon,” she answered. Then, raising her head 
and looking at him from eyes no happier than her 
face was firm, she added, “ He is coming to see you 
at three. I have promised to marry him.” 

“Frances!” 

She did not waver; but she saw the incredulity, 
the horror, in his expression, and the joy faded 
from her face. 

“You are not pleased?” 

“Pleased!” he stormed, springing from his 
chair. “ Pleased ! ” He crossed to her and put 
his two hands on her shoulders. “ Frances,” he 
said, in a voice tense and pleading, “ would I be 
pleased if you were to tell me that you intended to 
jump from the steeple of Notre Dame?” and 
under his breath — “The cad!” 

Frances covered his hands with her own. “ You 
must not say that, Howard.” She spoke gently, 
but there was a quality of firmness in her tone 
which he knew of old. “ You must not say things 
which you will regret afterward, when we are mar- 
ried. And, Howard, I am going to marry Michael 
Zembec.” 


i22 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 


Ware withdrew his hands from her grasp and 
stood looking earnestly into her face. “ I shall 
not argue with you Frances,” he said, shortly. 
“ You are of age; and I cannot prevent your mak- 
ing a fool of yourself if you wish. But I shall talk 
frankly to Zembec. If he has one spark of honor 

or manhood in his convict’s body ■” 

“ — he will heed my wishes. You have used 
enough hard words for the present, Howard,” she 
returned, with dignity. “ Think it over quietly in 
your study until Michael comes. And, when he 
does come, remember — that he is to be my hus- 
band.” 

Ware walked angrily to the door. 

“ I shall remember that he is an escaped con- 
vict ! ” he cried, and slammed the door behind him. 

For a long time Frances sat motionless. She 
had expected opposition, perhaps, but no such 
stormy scene as had just passed. And from the 
world’s point of view she knew that her brother 
was right; that unless Michael could be brought to 
the abjuration of his most cherished ideals, she was 
condemning herself to a life of anxiety and insecu- 
rity and dread. Very well; she would let that be 
the battlefield. Her happiness against his ideals! 
She had loved him once for their very possession. 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 123 

Now she would love him the more, that in the joy- 
ful possession of herself he might forget them. 
She would bring him a love so great as to supplant 
the morbid craving for excitement which his past 
had made almost a necessity; a happiness which 
would inspire pride in his home and care for its 
security. 

Frances did not underrate the difficulties in her 
way. She was blind neither to the steadfastness of 
her lover’s ambition, nor to the sanguine nature 
which rendered that ambition possible. But she 
knew the strength of her own will, and she felt that 
she could conquer. It would be slow. He must be 
weaned from his ways as a mother weans her babe; 
but her love and his need of her love would 
conquer. 

Filled with this determination, which seemed to 
clear away all the clouds in which, for months, she 
had been enveloped, Frances put aside her cares. 
A half hour remained before Zembec would return, 
and this she filled out with a brisk walk to the Place 
de la Concorde and back. Then, without removing 
her hat, she awaited the encounter between the two 
men. When three o’clock came and Zembec had 
not arrived, she was disappointed. She had set 
her heart upon hi§ being punctual. But the min- 


124 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

ute hand crept slowly around the dial and still he 
did not appear. At half-past three Ware came into 
the room and, with a wearied remark that he could 
do no decent work that afternoon, threw himself 
into an easy-chair and took up a book. There 
was no further attempt at conversation between 
them. Frances made her way to the window and 
anxiously pressed her brow against the pane, search- 
ing among the passers-by for the stalwart form of 
her lover. 

It was long after four when she finally espied 
him hurrying down the street. She was at the door 
to meet him. 

“ I’m sorry, dearest,” he apologized, with a 
quick caress. “ It was unavoidable. I could not 
find Pehlen earlier.” 

Frances pressed his hand. “ Never mind,” she 
answered, without reproach, “ Howard is there in 
the sitting-room, waiting for you. I have told 
him.” 

She let him precede her down the hall, and heard 
the exclamation of delight with which he greeted 
the American. Then, following him, she saw him 
suddenly stop. On the other side of the room, her 
brother was standing with folded arms, gazing at 
his visitor with all the withering contempt he could 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 125 

crowd into his expression. For a moment, as 
Frances halted in the open doorway, there was 
silence. Then Ware spoke. 

“ Count Zembec, my sister tells me that you have 
asked her to marry you. My sister is, unfortu- 
nately, her own mistress, and if she wishes to accept 
you I can do nothing to prevent it. But so far 
as my own consent is concerned, I may tell you that 
I should much prefer to see you strike her dead 
than condemn her to share such a life as yours. 
I think I can make my own attitude in the matter 
no clearer.” 

Zembec was too amazed at his unexpected recep- 
tion to be ready with an answer on the instant. 
But he quickly regained control of himself. 
Frances saw him draw himself up to his full height, 
then bow slightly. 

“ Professor Ware,” he said, quietly and cere- 
moniously, and apparently ignoring completely the 
words just spoken, “ I have the honor of asking you 
for your sister’s hand in marriage. You, of course, 
know little — very little — of me. But for any in- 
quiries which you may choose to make concerning 
either myself, my family, or my fortune, I may 
refer you to the Second Secretary of the Russian 
Embassy, Count Pehlen ; or if you will, to the Am- 


126 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

bassador himself,” he added, with a touch of de- 
fiance. “ A count of Zembec need ask for no 
indulgence in that respect. I told Mademoiselle 
of my love for her first, because — because I pre- 
ferred to do so. We Poles act too suddenly at 
times, perhaps. But it is from you I ask her 
hand.” Again he bowed. 

Despite his formal, courtly manner, a hard glitter 
crept into Zembec’s eyes. Frances could not see it, 
for his back was still turned to her; but Ware 
could, and recognized it. It was the same look 
with which Zembec had turned upon him that first 
morning in the desert, when he had told them what 
he was and dared them to betray him ; the look of a 
man who would not know one weapon from an- 
other if opposed. Ware had never forgotten it, 
even in their last days of closest intimacy. And 
remembering it, he could not forget that despite 
culture, breeding, sentiment, tenderness, Zembec 
was at heart a barbarian. That he should be un- 
able to suppress it even now, told Ware only the 
more forcibly of the unhappy life which Frances 
was preparing for herself. And it also emphasized 
his own impotency. Nevertheless he did not give 
ground. 

“ You have heard what I said,” he returned, in 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 127 

answer to Zembec’s speech. “ I can say no more. 
You shall have neither my consent, nor, if you 
marry without it, my recognition.’ ’ 

Zembec turned to Frances and smiled his con- 
fidence in her; then, to Ware: 

“ I regret your opposition, Monsieur,” he told 
him, with dignity, u I regret it extremely. But I 
shall ask no favor from you. In case you alter 
your mind, after inquiries, very well. But if not, 
I think she will marry me in spite of you.” 

“Inquiries! you insolent scoundrel!” broke in 
Ware. His self-control was gone. “ I need no 
third person to tell me what you are. You came to 
me a cowardly, frightened suppliant, — an escaped 
convict. You have not lost that character, and in 
it, with a little romantic stage-play, you seem to 
have succeeded in blinding my sister into love for 
you. That stamps you sufficiently for me. You 
are a cad, sir; a miserable, treacherous, ungrateful 
cad. And if I cannot stop you from ruining her 
life in any other way, I shall accept your dare to 
go to the Russian Ambassador. The crime for 
which you were sent to Siberia may or may not 
have been one for which they can extradite you. 
But the Ambassador will know that, as well as of 
your family, and ” 


128 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 


“ Stop, Howard.” Frances, very pale, but very 
calm, stepped in front of Zembec’s clenched hand. 
“ Come,” she commanded of her lover. She led 
him by the arm into the hall. And when they were 
alone she faced him. 

“ Michael,” she said, breathlessly, “ he will do 
it. We must go to the American Embassy — now 
— and be married there.” 


CHAPTER XII 


W ARE, stormy and alone, sat awaiting 
Frances’s return. An hour later a mes- 
senger appeared with a short, hastily- 
written note from her. It told him what they had 
done, with a brief word of regret that he had 
driven them to it so suddenly; and what their pres- 
ent plans were. They had taken rooms at the 
“ Hotel Continental ” and would stay there a few 
days, and then go off somewhere for a short trip. 
Meanwhile she requested him to have the maid 
pack some of her clothes — enough for two weeks 
or so — and send them to the hotel. There was a 
short postscript which made Ware flush with anger. 
“ I want to see you, of course, dear, and beg you 
to come to me,” it said. “ If you do so, ask for 
Mme. Ponachi. Michael thought it best to 
register under a false name.” 

Ware re-read the note and, with a deep sigh, 
slipped it into a pigeon-hole of his desk. “To 
think that Frances, my careful, deliberate, depend- 
able Frances, should do such a thing as that ! ” 
129 


130 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

For a long time he sat motionless, his chin upon his 
hand. Then he took pen and paper, and answered 
her letter. 

Frances: Your foolish, ill-considered act has 
deprived me of the only means at my disposal of 
preventing your sacrificing yourself; for now that 
Count Zembec is your husband, of course I cannot 
disclose his secret to the Russian authorities. It 
has also relieved me of the necessity of remaining 
in Paris. You and your husband had better return 
here to-morrow, and keep the rooms until the ex- 
piration of the lease. I shall have left for Tur- 
kestan by noon. 

Regretfully, 

Howard. 


He rang for the maid. 

“ Will you kindly get together a few of your 
mistress’s things, a dress or so, and whatever else 
she needs for a short journey, and send them over 
to the Hotel Continental, with this note, addressed 
to — to Mme. Ponachi.” 

He gulped at the name. The maid wonderingly 
took the note from his hand. 

“ Mademoiselle is ? ” 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 13 1 

“ Mademoiselle is married,” he said, tersely; 
and, under his breath, u God help her! ” 

Then, lonely and discouraged, he set about his 
packing. 

So it came about that on the next afternoon 
Frances and her husband moved back into her own 
quarters. She made no effort to see Howard be- 
fore he left. His curt note had hurt her, hurt her 
terribly; and she understood the slightly narrow 
trait in his character too well not to know that at- 
tempted explanations would only add fuel to the 
flame. But time, she was sure, would dispel his 
anger; time and her happiness. Meanwhile she 
could only accept the situation as it was, and do 
her best not to let regret at their rupture cast any 
shadow upon her married life. But during the en- 
suing weeks she wrote to her brother regularly, 
though neither receiving nor expecting any word 
in response. “ You shall hear from me once a 
week, as you always have during our separations,” 
she told him in her first letter; “ and so long as I 
write, you will know I am happy and you are unjust 
to Michael. When my letters cease, it will be be- 
cause I need you.” 

And reading the sentence over, Frances felt tears 
of joy and confidence rush to her eyes. She was 


132 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

very certain of the continuation of that correspond- 
ence, for even on the first night of her married life 
she had gained a great victory over her husband. 
In that hour, the most sacred of all in a woman’s 
life, she had thrown her arms about his neck, and 
begged for, and been granted, the fulfillment of her 
hopes. 

“ Michael,” she had whispered, “ you said this 
morning that you loved me more than the liberty 
of Poland. Was that true? ” And then, not dar- 
ing to pause : “ I am jealous, Michael. I want you 
all for myself. I want you to promise to live for 
me, not for your ambition — to give up — taking 
risks. You must, dear heart, for my sake.” 

“ I understand.” There had followed a strug- 
gle in the man’s face. But in the end, with a 
strange softness in his eyes, tender and worship- 
ping, he had bent over and kissed her gently on the 
forehead. 

“ I promise, dearest.” 

Neither then nor afterwards did Frances belittle 
the magnitude of the sacrifice that word implied, 
nor did she over-estimate his ability to accomplish 
it. Nevertheless her path became easier. The 
gauntlet had been thrown down. She had de- 
clared herself. And where she had expected battle, 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 133 

argument, appeal, she had been met with tender, 
ready acquiescence, without a word of reproach for 
the sudden failure of the sympathy and encourage- 
ment which she had once given him in his ambi- 
tions. She did not renew the subject. But day by 
day she watched for signs of weakening, and as 
each came to an end she acquired an additional 
confidence. Michael was deliberately trying, for 
her sake, to blot the memory of his country from 
his heart. It was much, very much, for her to ask; 
that it should be granted made the whole world 
bright to her. 

Thus the first week of their married life went 
happily by. Looking back upon it, later, Frances 
could not remember the intrusion of even one re- 
gret, one disappointment, because of what she had 
done. They lived for the days alone; and by 
mutual though tacit consent, all discussion of the 
future was barred. In the depth of her heart 
Frances was picturing that future as being spent in 
America, where her husband would be safely 
hedged in from all temptation and danger. But 
the time was not yet ripe, she thought, for the 
broaching of a plan so radical. Every day that 
Michael continued in his present state of peace and 
forgetfulness of the past was so much gained to 


i 3 4 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

her, bound him to her by stronger ties ; and so she 
was content to wait, watching the currents. The 
waters were in the right channel, flowing even 
more truly and swiftly than Frances had dared to 
hope; and until there came a turn, a set-back, she 
was only too glad to let them run their course. 

She would have shown more wisdom, perhaps, 
had she rushed her plans. For Zembec was in a 
mood such as he seldom knew. Whether only in- 
terrupting, or really marking the abandonment of, 
a life of continued excitement, recklessness, war- 
fare, the quiet of those days was to him like the 
peaceful convalescence of a sickened inebriate. He 
surrendered himself to it; unbent himself. In 
short, world-tired Zembec had reached a haven of 
restful contentment; and real contentment is rarely 
granted to men born, like this Pole, with abnormal 
craving for excitement and opposition. 

There was only one element in these days of their 
honeymoon which interfered with Frances’s equa- 
nimity; but that one, the fact that they were mas- 
querading under a false name, was a thorn to her. 
Under the circumstances she could not even advise 
her friends of her marriage, much less see them, 
without explanations which it would be difficult in- 
deed to make. The seclusion in which she had lived 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 135 

with her brother had in this respect most fortunate 
after-effects ; for, as visitors had rarely come to her 
before, they did not come now. Nevertheless the 
possibility of such a contretemps was always 
present as a little cloud upon the horizon. Mme. 
Ponachi she was to her maid, of necessity; but 
it would have been bitter medicine to the bride’s 
pride had she been forced to deny her name to 
friends. 

It was this, as much as anything, which brought 
their stay in Paris to an end. Frances chanced one 
day to meet the wife of one of Howard’s colleagues 
with whom they had dined, and was effusively 
greeted as Miss Ware. She let it pass. But she 
was humiliated; and that evening the subject of an 
automobile trip across France and into the Vosges 
was broached: 

“ To wind up our honeymoon in some peaceful 
mountain village,” she explained, deceitfully. 

“ And then ? ” inquired Michael. 

Frances hesitated, and then kissed him. 

“ * Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,’ ” 
she laughed. “We shall start to-morrow after- 
noon.” And she summoned her maid to help with 
the packing. 

As she was going through the modest assortment 


136 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

of jewels which she had brought to Europe with 
her, laying aside this ring, that pin, to be taken on 
the trip, she was suddenly interrupted by the maid. 

“Oh, Madame, I had forgotten; your cross! ” 

The girl darted from the room, to return a mo- 
ment later with the emblem which Frances had long 
since banished from her mind as destroyed. 

“ It came into the stove, some way, Madame,” 
she explained, apologetically. “ I do not know 
how, unless it fell from Madame’s dress as she 
was bending over the door. I found it the night 
Madame was married; and her box was locked, 
so I took it to my room.” 

Frances was indeed momentarily startled by the 
sudden reappearance of the cross. But in her 
security and confidence she no longer read into it 
any fateful significance. With a word of thanks 
to the maid she placed the cross in her jewel box 
as an interesting memento of her adventure in the 
deserted house at Sceaux. 

The next morning, after all else was ready for 
their departure, Michael and Frances walked over 
to the garage to order the machine for two o’clock. 
While they were away, Count Pehlen called. Not 
knowing of her marriage, he naturally asked for 
Miss Ware, and the maid, without enlightening 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 137 

him as to her mistress’s change of name, ushered 
him into the sitting room to await her return. 
But it happened that Frances, after doing the one 
errand, went on to make some final purchases for 
their trip, leaving her husband to return alone. 
Pehlen heard his step in the hall, and thought it 
was Ware’s. Then the door opened. 

Pehlen sprang to his feet. Every trace of color 
had left his face. 

“ My God! Zembec!” 

“You!” 

Frances would have found it hard to reconcile 
the manner of that greeting with Count Pehlen’s 
assurances of solicitude for her husband’s safety. 


CHAPTER XIII 


OR an instant the two men stood speechlessly 



facing each other. Then Zembec stepped 


quickly to the door and closed it; and Peh- 
len used the momentary respite to good advantage. 
When Michael turned round again he found the 
other advancing to the center of the room, with a 
friendly hand outstretched and a smile of welcome 
on his lips. 

“Back? You are back again? And safe? 
Welcome, my friend; the heartiest of welcomes! 
We had given you up as dead.” 

Zembec ignored the proffered hand. 

“ So it was only you, after all,” he commented, 
half-contemptuously, half-regretfully. “ I had 
hoped your brother ” 

“ My brother,” interrupted Pehlen, “ is dead.” 

“Dead!” Zembec’s face fell. But he re- 
covered himself, quickly. “ Ah, that accounts for 
it,” he went on, scornfully. “ You have stepped 
into his shoes, I suppose. I could hardly imagine 
that Paris would be large enough to hold you 


both” 


X38 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 139 

Pehlen raised his hands in expostulation. 

“ The unfortunate differences between my 
brother and myself were buried long ago. And 
now that he is dead there is no need to talk of 
them. Let us speak of the future. You have 
found our friends ?” 

“ A few — but none from the Society. When 
did your brother die?” 

“ A year and a half ago — in April — shortly 
after your own arrest.” Pehlen drew a step nearer. 
“ I have news for you,” he whispered. “ Brousak 
and Wagner are here, with others. They will wel- 
come you. We are planning great events.” 

Zembec looked at the man searchingly. “ You 
say ‘ We,’ ” he said, finally, with contempt. “ Do 
Brousak and Wagner take you into their coun- 
cils? ” 

The other lightly ignored the inflection. “ Why 
not? Have I not been ” 

“ Then they have come to no definite decision 
as to who betrayed our last plans? ” 

Pehlen stepped back, then burst into a hearty 
laugh. 

“ The same old Michael! ” he cried, “ the same 
old Michael ! Haven’t you even yet learned to be 
more generous in your suspicions?” 


i 4 o PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

“ A Russian prison and the deserts of Turkestan 
are poor schools in which to learn generosity, 
Count Pehlen,” returned Zembec, dangerously, as 
the thought of that last year came before him. 
“ That my associates should have remained blind 
might perhaps be explained. Your treachery was 
not impressed upon them by suffering as it was 
upon me.” 

Pehlen stood before him, his hands slightly out- 
stretched, his face earnest. 

“ The suspicion of my treachery,” he corrected, 
gently. “ Only the groundless suspicion, Michael. 
In your solitude you have enlarged upon nothing. 
I give you my word of honor that no information 
concerning your plans — our plans — ever reached 
the Russian authorities through me; that I was in 
no way responsible for your arrest.” 

“Your word of honor?” Zembec gazed 
thoughtfully at him; and then, neither accepting 
nor rejecting the man’s statement, went back to his 
first question. 

“ How did your brother die? ” 

“ He — was arrested, too. He died in the for- 
tress in Warsaw.” 

“Executed?” The word came out slowly. 

“ No. By his own hand.” 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 141 

Again Zembec was silent. “ And my cousin, 
Maria Sobanska?” he asked, finally. “ What 
has become of her?” 

Pehlen drew a step nearer. “ You wish proof 
that I am not a traitor, Michael. I can give it 
you,” he whispered. “ You know well that the 
police would gladly have let you, my brother, every 
one else, escape, had they been able to take Maria 
Sobanska in return. They are still looking for 
her. She disappeared the day after your own 
arrest; and it was with my assistance that she did 
so. I know where she is — I, alone, of all, Rus- 
sians or Poles; for I have never told.” He opened 
the door, shut it again, and then, with his lips close 
to Zembec’s ear, whispered something to him. 

Zembec drew a long breath. 

“ Ah, but that was bold. Who but Marie her- 
self would have thought of such a thing? And no 
one else knows? She has never tried to communi- 
cate with the Council? ” 

“ No. She is waiting. With you and my 
brother gone, things have been at a standstill. 
Only recently Brousak was chosen to fill your place, 

and now But Brousak will tell you more than 

I can. He will, of course, surrender his office 
to you, and ” 


142 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

“No news of my escape had reached you?” 
asked Zembec, sharply. 

“ None. Or at least only a rumor,” Pehlen 
added, quickly, “ with the addition that you had 
been killed. We had given you up. The Society 
will give you such a welcome in consequence as you 
have never had before.” 

The returned wanderer, without answering, be- 
gan to pace the room ; and Pehlen, watching, noted 
the signs of a struggle in his face. Finally, he 
stopped short, with a gesture that told of bridges 
burned behind him. 

“ The Council must get on without me, Pehlen,” 
he announced, briefly. “ I am through.” 
“What!” 

“ I am through.” 

Pehlen’s face showed his disappointment. Then 
his mouth broke into a sarcastic smile. 

“ Your captivity and adventures have made you 
afraid?” 

Zembec’s brows clouded dangerously. 

“ You ” He checked himself. “ I suppose 

the others will say that as well. But it can make 
no difference. I am through.” 

“Nonsense, man! We will not hear of it. 
Why, you are the one man in the world to carry 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 143 

out our present plans. We cannot get on without 
you. The Society will not permit it. Poland ” — 
Pehlen’s hands came down on Zembec’s shoulders 
— “ Poland, itself, Michael, will not permit it.” 

The signs of hesitation came back into Zembec’s 
face. But he shook himself free. “ No. I am 
done with it; done, I say! ” he cried. And then a 
nature which he could combat but not entirely con- 
quer asserted itself. “What are your plans?” 

Pehlen hesitated; and a smile which made Zem- 
bec writhe gathered about his mouth. 

“ I think,” he answered, finally, “ I had better 
send Brousak to you. He can explain better than 
I. Or will you perhaps go to him ? I will give you 
his address. He is living out in Sceaux.” 

Zembec nodded. “ I know.” 

“ You have been there? ” asked Pehlen, quickly. 

“ Not yet. But I have the address. — I shall not 
use it, however,” he resumed, after a long pause. 
“ I shall not go to see Brousak. As I told you, 
I am through.” 

Pehlen chose not to answer at once. With Zem- 
bec’s re-awakened determination, his own anxiety 
seemed to have come back. But Zembec did not 
note it. He was thinking, with his eyes on noth- 
ing. Finally, the diplomatist rose. “ I think it is 


144 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

as well so, after all,” he said, gravely. “ You have 
been hardly treated, Michael, and no one could 
blame you for ” 

Zembec wheeled sharply upon him. “ It is not 
that. You know it is not that,” he cried, hotly. 
“ But ” He stopped short. 

“ Then what is it? What shall I say to Brousak 
in excuse for your withdrawal ? What can I say ? ” 

But Zembec had no excuse to offer. He could 
determine to break with his old associates, give up 
his ideals. But he could not admit to this man, 
this man for whom, at the best, he felt contempt, 
that his apostasy was in subservience to the will of 
a woman. 

“ Say to him,” he said, stubbornly, “ that I am 
my own master, able to choose my own course. 
Anything you wish, besides ; but, once and for all, 
that I am no longer of the Society.” As he paced 
feverishly up and down the room, his voice rose 
higher and higher. “ Say, if you will,” he cried, 
in the bitterness of his renunciation, u that I have 
changed my opinions; that I am no longer a Pole; 
that in my imprisonment I have learned submis- 
sion, that my spirit is broken, that now I love the 
Czar.” 

He threw himself into a chair. “ Should not 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 145 

that satisfy him?” he asked, with a hard, un- 
natural laugh. 

The other made no response, but watched him, 
curiously. Uncontrolled of tongue though Zem- 
bec was, when excited, such phrases as these were 
beyond comprehension. But if Pehlen hoped that 
by waiting he might discover a clue to the man’s 
real motive for withdrawing, he was to be dis- 
appointed. Zembec’s struggle with himself con- 
tinued, but its progress was betrayed only by the 
working of his clouded features. When next he 
spoke it was upon a different subject. 

“ What became of your brother’s papers on his 
death? ” 

Pehlen started at the sudden change, but caught 
himself. 

“ I have them, of course,” he answered. “ All, 
that is, except what the police saw fit to appropriate 
in the search which followed his arrest. There 
were ” 

He hastily sprang to his feet. For as he was 
speaking the door opened and Frances entered the 
room. 

“ Ah, Mademoiselle ! ” He stepped forward to 
greet her, and was thus prevented from seeing the 
consternation on Zembec’s face. And he also 


146 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

failed to note — or he disregarded — the shadow of 
doubt that gathered in Frances’s eyes as she saw 
those two men together and realized that her plans 
might already have been upset. 

“ Mademoiselle, you haven’t kept faith with 
me,” he went on. “ You promised to write when- 
ever you heard from Michael. And here ” 

Frances looked from one to the other. 

“ But you have seen him before now, have you 
not?” she returned in perplexity. u Michael said 
he went to call upon you the first day he was 
here.” 

“To call upon him; yes,” interposed Zembec, 
quickly, from the other end of the room. u But I 
told you, you remember, that I did not find him 
in.” 

Frances did not remember it; and she did not 
understand. The doubt in her eyes deepened. 

“ And has Michael also not told you about our- 
selves? ” she went on. “ You still call me Made- 
moiselle. Has he not ” 

“ You do not mean to say that I should call you 
Madame?” he cried; and then, as her meaning 
thrust itself upon him and he turned to Zembec 
for confirmation of his thoughts, “ You are married 
to him, to Michael? ” One hand clenched, quickly, 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 147 

and opened again, but that was the only sign other 
than of gladness that escaped him, and neither of 
the others observed it. The congratulations which 
he poured out to Frances were those of Michael’s 
life-long friend; and though a rather sarcastic smile 
played upon Zembec’s face as he listened to them, 
they sounded to Frances herself more sincere than 
anything she had ever before heard the man 
utter. And when he had finished he turned to 
Michael: 

“ As I was about to say when Madame entered, 
you know, I — I have some securities which belong 
to you. Will you be in this afternoon? If so, I 
will ” 

“ We are going off on an automobile trip,” in- 
terposed Frances, hastily. “ Will they not keep 
for ten days? We start at two.” 

Pehlen smiled. “ It is as you and Michael wish. 
They are certainly in safe enough hands.” 

Frances smiled in return. “ Thank you,” she 
said. “ I am sure they are. We are going over 
to the Vosges, you know, and I refuse to have 
Michael worrying over things like the money mar- 
ket while we are away.” She slipped off her 
jacket, and handed it to her husband. “ Will you 
take this into my room for me, Michael? ” 


148 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

As he left the room her manner changed. She 
faced Pehlen with quiet determination in every line 
of her countenance. 

“ You must understand once and for all, 
Count Pehlen,” she said, slowly, “ I shall permit 
no interference with my husband on your 
part.” 

“ You mean ” 

“ — that when Michael married me he gave up 
active association with Polish affairs.” 

Pehlen laughed good-naturedly. “ You give me 
credit for too much influence with him. But seri- 
ously, Madame, it should be the other way about. 
You will find that Poland not only holds her chil- 
dren but even claims her children’s wives. You 
are much too valuable and clever a woman 


“ You hear me,” she returned, quietly. “ He 
must be let alone. I shall hold you respon- 
sible.” 

“ Say, rather, he must be restrained. You do 
not yet know Michael, Madame. But ” — his eyes 
half closed — “ but I have no desire to cause you 
unhappiness. Very much the contrary; for your 
will is mine. I might even help you — for a reward 
— for — shall we call it a smile ? ” 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 149 

Frances turned cold at the light words. “ I do 
not want your help,” she returned, steadily. “ You 
are to leave him to me. For that, if you wish, you 
can have a reward — a certain letter which I have 
in my possession.” 

“ Ah, Madame,” he murmured, “ what Pole 
could help falling in love with you! I shall see 
for Michael’s sake — and a little for mine, I hope 
— that you do not meet our countrymen.” 

Frances raised her eyebrows. “ You have said 
enough on that subject, Count Pehlen. You under- 
stand my purpose. I shall not threaten you; but I 
will not be deterred.” 

“ Not by me, Madame, rest assured. You will 
find me a slave to your wishes — for love of 
Michael,” he laughed. 

“ Very well. We will let it go at that.” 

But as Zembec was escorting their visitor to the 
door, a few minutes later, Pehlen asked him in an 
undertone what his address in the Vosges would be. 
Michael hesitated. 

“ Poste restante, St. Die, will reach me,” he 
said, finally. “ But you had better keep the cer- 
tificates until my return. And there is probably 
nothing else of which you need write.” 

“ Of course not,” returned the other, promptly. 


1 50 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

Zembec, very solemn of face, went back to his 
wife and put his arms about her. 

“ It is done, dearest,” he whispered, gently. 
“I have broken with them; broken with all my 
past. But it was harder than I had thought ! Ah, 
but it was hard.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


F RANCES was blithe of heart as she stepped 
into the machine that afternoon and pointed 
its nose eastward for the first long run to- 
ward Nancy. She was to get away from Paris; 
to escape from all the secrecy and deceit in which 
they had been living; to have two whole weeks 
in which to work upon her husband without danger 
of a set-back through his friends. And Michael 
had stood his first ordeal well. His interview with 
Pehlen had left him only the more tender and 
gentle to herself. Frances watched him nervously; 
and, at first so fearful that she must begin her 
task all over again, she gradually acquired new 
confidence and finally even congratulated herself 
that the meeting between the two men had taken 
place. Michael did not allude to it again. But 
his renunciation seemed to sit lightly upon his 
mind. She did not doubt but that deep in his heart 
there lay regret that he had broken with his col- 
leagues. She could not expect the contrary, nor did 
she demand it. It was sufficient that the break 


i 5 a PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

had been accomplished. And that the effort had 
not cost him more, that he had emerged from the 
struggle without even the dampening of his good 
spirits, caused her to believe that she had perhaps 
over-estimated the strength of his old passion. If 
she had, her task was to be only the easier. If she 
had not, her influence over him had proved greater, 
her victory more nearly complete, than she had 
dared hope. 

The succeeding days brought only still greater 
promise. The automobile was pushed hard until 
they reached the mountains; but thereafter they 
contented themselves with shorter runs. They 
avoided the larger towns, taking nightly refuge 
in the quaint little inns of peasant hamlets; whiling 
away their mornings in careless exploration of the 
vineyards and forest paths about; making friends 
with the wood-cutters and grape-pickers ; and com- 
ing home to luncheon dusty and tired and breath- 
less from their climbs, but closer, always closer and 
more contented. Frances, in a long letter to her 
brother, dated from a little town on the German 
side of the frontier, wrote that the happiness of 
those days was the happiness of Heaven. And she 
was also able to write that she and her husband 
planned to sail for America immediately upon the 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 153 

conclusion of their present trip. Frances set down 
those words with triumph in her heart, for they 
were meant to convince Howard that he had been 
entirely wrong. 

She had gained her point with unexpected ease. 
It was, of course, impossible for man and wife to 
live on together day after day without thought or 
word of the morrow; but for nearly three weeks 
Frances had not dared — and Zembec had ap- 
parently not wished — to speak of the future. That 
he himself did not broach the subject gave her 
food for worry at first, for his silence seemed to 
betoken indecision. But as her confidence grew she 
remembered those long weeks in Turkestan, where 
Michael had been so content, so inert, in the safety 
or joy of the moment, though his very life was 
swinging in the balance; and she ascribed this, as 
that, to an inconsistent trait in his character which, 
in spite of his turbulent spirit, made him unable 
at times to look beyond the pleasure of the hour. 
Nevertheless Frances saw they were living in an 
artificial calm which could not last; and finally re- 
solved to risk its interruption at any cost, rather 
than continue in such suspense. She chose her time 
well. They had been giving up the morning to a 
long tramp through the forests, zigzagging by silent 


154 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

wood-roads through the great pines up the moun- 
tain-sides. When noon overtook them they ate their 
luncheon from Michael’s haversack, by a little 
stream. After they had finished, Michael stretched 
himself at full length upon the pine needles, and 
smoked his cigar, while Frances, with an elbow on 
her knee, her chin in her hand, sat gazing out 
through the trees at the vista of the world 
beyond. 

And a wonderful vista it was. Below her, 
nestling in a little hollow and creeping up the sur- 
rounding hillside, lay the quaint white cottages of a 
straggling Alsatian village. A stream of dark, pent- 
up water divided the town, and then, turning white 
as it passed the ramshackle mill, foamed downward 
toward the Rhine;, through a valley at first black 
and shaggy in its mantle of forests, then green 
with vineyards and checkered by infinitesimal multi- 
colored fields of stubble and meadow-land and win- 
ter grain. And far, far beyond, lay the Rhine-plain 
itself; seeming the end of everything, shining soft 
and opalescent in the dim haze that hovered over 
it. Involuntarily Frances fell to contrasting the 
peaceful scene with that other she had so often 
looked at and marvelled at with Michael, the omi- 
nous, pitiless, hungry brown of the desert ; and she 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 155 

wondered which of the two was emblematical of 
the path which lay before her. 

Michael, without changing his position, reached 
for her hand and held it caressingly with his own. 
“ It’s heavenly; isn’t it, dearest? ” he murmured. 

Frances caught her breath, then turned abruptly 
to him and poured out the wish of her soul. Her 
husband slowly rose as she spoke, and looked at 
her thoughtfully. 

“You really desire it, dearest?” he asked, at 
length. 

“ I can never tell you how much, Michael,” she 
answered. 

“ Then of course we shall go,” he returned. 

There was no regret, no bitterness, no hesitation 
in his voice. Frances buried her face in her hands. 
It was the only time in all their companionship 
that Zembec ever saw his wife weep. 

He knelt beside her and wiped away the tears. 

“ Dear heart,” he whispered. “ You — you had 
not trusted me?” 

Frances, in bitter self-reproach, opened her eyes 
to his. 

“ No, not that,” she answered piteously. “ I 
— I did not know how much you were willing to 
give up. Oh, Michael, I am so happy, so secure. 


156 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

Shall we — let’s go back to Paris — now — and 
make ready.” 

Michael gave her her own way in that, as in 
other things. Two hours later they were flying 
down the western slopes of the mountains. They 
stopped for the night at St. Die. It was there 
that Frances finished her letter to Howard. And 
just before starting off again the next morning, 
Michael, with a hang-dog curiosity which he could 
not resist, went to the post office and inquired for 
mail. He had told Frances he was going for a 
short walk and would be back in fifteen minutes. 
But an hour had passed before he returned, gloomy 
and depressed. He climbed into the waiting ma- 
chine without speaking. Throughout the morn- 
ing’s run he remained silent and absent-minded. 
At the little inn where they stopped for luncheon, 
Frances, leaving the room for a moment, returned 
to find him studying a letter. She glanced over 
his shoulder, and saw that it was in Polish. 

“ It is from Pehlen,” he told her, briefly; “ about 
some stocks he has been holding for me.” 

“ I know,” she responded. “ He told me about 
them.” 

Zembec, sunk in his thoughts, tore the letter into 
little bits, and walking to the window, held them 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 157 

out in his open hand. One by one the wind picked 
them up and carried them away When the last 
piece had disappeared he turned regretfully to his 
wife. 

“I am disappointed, Frances. There are much 
fewer than I had expected.” 

Frances looked bewildered. 

“ You do not mean that Count Pehlen ” 

“ He has only about a third of all I gave his 
brother,” continued Michael. 

“ But I don’t understand. He told me you had 
given them to him, himself.” 

“ Pehlen told you that ! ” he exclaimed, in won- 
der. But after a moment’s consideration: “You 
must be mistaken. Or else,” he added, “ it was 
to cut a long story short.” He looked at her re- 
gretfully. “ It makes a great difference, Frances,” 
he said, in a choked voice. “ You have married a 
very poverty-stricken man.” 

In her recognition of the fact that her husband 
was suffering actual pain over his loss, the question 
of Pehlen’s motive in deceiving her vanished from 
Frances’s mind. She was at his side at once. 

“ Never mind, dear,” she assured him, tenderly. 
“What great difference can it make? Haven’t I 
enough for both of us? Of course I have.” 


158 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

“You would have me submit to that?” he 
asked, gloomily. “ Do you realize what my posi- 
tion would be? American women are given to 
marrying penniless European noblemen, I know. 
But afterwards they usually live over here, where 
their husbands can at least offer them the estates 
and position that go with the name. But for my- 
self? What can I give you in America? You 
bring me home to your friends, a husband picked 
up anywhere, a pauper, an exile to whom in the 
goodness of your dear heart you have offered 
shelter! How will that make me stand among 
men? It would be different if I could work, per- 
haps. But I — I have never looked forward to the 
necessity of supporting myself, dearest. I have 
never learned either a profession or trade. I have 
always been taught — how not to work. I did not 
realize,” he ended, slowly, “ that I was qualifying 
myself for the position of — a parasite.” 

Frances turned vehemently upon him. 

“ You shall not use such a word as that, 
Michael!” 

Zembec smiled wearily. “ It offends your ears, 
dearest? So it does mine. But it is the only word 
to use, Frances — unless — But that is impossible.” 

“What is?” 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 159 

He did not answer at once; but stood playing 
thoughtfully with the tips of her fingers. 

“What is impossible, Michael?” she asked 
again. “ What that would make you happier? ” 

“ For me to go to Warsaw for a few days,” he 
responded, with an effort. 

Frances caught her breath, and a spasm of dread 
shot across her face. 

“ I do not suggest it, Frances,” he went on, 
apologetically. “ Of course it would be impossible 
— to submit you to such an ordeal. But ah, dear- 
est, if it only could be done. My property lies 

there waiting for the asking; and ” 

“ But your friends? Could they not ” 

He smiled gently. “ No, I should have to go in 
person. It is complicated, too complicated for you 
to understand, perhaps. There are papers to be 
signed, books to be signed, and others could not 

do it. But ” He pulled himself together, as 

if to dismiss the subject. “ It is out of the ques- 
tion, of course. Let us be getting underway.” 

They did not recur to the matter until late 
in the afternoon. But throughout the run neither 
had much heart to talk of anything else. Zem- 
bec was guiding the car, and held his eyes hard 
upon the road ahead of him. But Frances, si- 


160 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 


lently studying his face, saw there both unhappi- 
ness and anxiety; and once or twice she caught an 
expression which she liked still less. She had seen 
it only once before; at the time when, in the tent 
in the desert, he had divined the fact that Ware 
would give him no help in his escape. There was 
disappointment in it, and there was rebellion, too; 
and it gave Frances an uncomfortable sense of in- 
security. 

As a matter of fact, Frances Ware was facing 
a difficult problem that afternoon, and upon her 
decision in regard to it might hang all her future 
happiness. She of course rejected as non- 
sensical the idea that her husband would suffer 
humiliation at the hands of her friends, no matter 
how poor he might be. But she nevertheless real- 
ized that imaginary humiliation would be as bitter 
to him as if it were actual. Her husband was 
proud. He was sensitive, and he was headstrong; 
galled by trifles, without philosophy; a man whose 
peace of mind must be made for him. Frances 
could bank upon his love for her. But whether it 
was strong enough to hold him to her through a 
long period of adversity, even imaginary adversity, 
she did not know. The question sifted itself down 
to this: should she risk that long, steady strain 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 161 

upon his loyalty; or should she stake everything 
upon her ability to hold him through one fierce 
test, in the faith that, one way or the other, it 
would be final? 

Without daring to look at him, she took up the 
conversation where they had dropped it three 
hours before. 

“ How many days would you have to be there? ” 

Zembec, too, kept his eyes ahead. “ Not long. 
A week, perhaps.” 

“ You would be running a great risk of detec- 
tion.” 

“ No. Not very great. I should of course have 
to disguise myself.” 

“ And — passports ? ” 

He laughed rather harshly. “ That is the sim- 
plest part of it. We are in France now, you know; 
not in Turkestan.” 

“You could get one for me, too?” 

The machine swerved a moment, then resumed 
its straight course. 

“ For you? ” he muttered. “ Never! ” Then, 
in a gentler voice: “ It would be impossible, dear- 
est. I could not submit you to such an ordeal.” 

“ My place is with you,” she returned, quickly. 

“ I know, but We will give up the plan.” 


162 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 


“ As you wish,” she answered, a little wearily. 

For the next five kilometers Michael ran the 
car at its limit of speed, and neither of them spoke. 
But Frances saw that he was pale and distressed. 
As they finally slowed down she drew a long 
breath of relief. 

“ You are terribly reckless, Michael.” 

He smiled rather bitterly. “And you?” 

“I?” 

“ You would have to go in disguise, too,” he 
murmured. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Could you do it? As a working-woman? ” he 
asked, doubtfully. 

“ You say it would be for only a week. I want 
you to do what is best. You must decide, your- 
self.” 

Bending over, he kissed her quickly. “ We 
shall be, ah, so happy, afterwards, dearest,” he 
whispered. 

Frances looked straight ahead. 

“When shall we start?” she asked, tersely. 

“ I can get ready in two or three days after we 
reach Paris,” he answered. 


CHAPTER XV 


F ROM the moment of their return to Paris 
Zembec became feverishly busy. For the 
first two days he was absent from the house 
from early morning until late at night. He re- 
turned tired on both occasions; but with an ex- 
pression in his eyes which was new to Frances; a 
look of joyous, devil-may-care revelling in excite- 
ment. On the third morning he had a visitor, who 
spent two hours in earnest conversation with him, 
behind closed doors. Frances did not meet the 
man, but she caught a glimpse of him in the hall 
as he left. He was rather unprepossessing, she 
thought; a tall, gaunt, shabbily-dressed man of 
about sixty, with a bristling, unkempt gray beard 
and with his shoulders hunched up and head thrust 
forward from between them, as if he were every 
instant expecting some one to kick him from 
behind. 

“ An old servitor of my family,” Zembec care- 
lessly explained to her, later. “ I used him as a 
confidential messenger in our — two years ago, you 

163 


1 64 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

know. He is arranging for our quarters in War- 
saw. We can leave to-night. When you pack, 
put in only enough things to last for three or four 
days. We must make a complete change in our 
outfit, anyhow, when we get to Berlin. Will you 
find it very difficult to give up silver brushes and 
fine linen for a week or so, dearest?” he asked, 
laughingly. “ If we are going in the guise of 
poor shop-keepers those things might strike the 
customs people as odd, you see.” 

“ We must take every precaution you can think 
of,” answered Frances, gravely. His high spirits 
and lightness of manner jarred upon her a little. 
The time was too critical for levity. But Zembec, 
always quick to respond to that tone in his wife’s 
voice, suddenly took her in his arms. 

“ I pledge you my life, dearest,” he whispered, 
“ that nothing shall be left undone. You — we — 
shall be as safe in Warsaw as in Paris. So go and 
do your packing, like a good girl, with a brave 
heart. In ten days more we shall be underway for 
America.” 

They travelled openly from Paris, and on reach- 
ing Berlin went to a small first-class hotel on the 
Wilhelmstrasse. They staid there two days, dur- 
ing which, as in Paris, Frances found that her hus- 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 165 

band’s mysterious preparations required long 
periods of absence in the city. Finally he an- 
nounced that all was in readiness. They left the 
hotel with their baggage, ostensibly to take a train 
to Leipzig. Zembec even bought tickets for that 
place. But no sooner were they freed from the 
hotel’s runner, than he placed his wife and belong- 
ings in a carriage and drove to the house of a 
friend, to effect their change of costume. 

A half-hour later, when Frances surveyed her- 
self in the glass, her heart came into her mouth. 
But Michael laughed down her womanly dismay. 

“ Never mind, dear,” he cried, in high spirits, 
“ what your clothes may be. They cannot affect 
your face, and you will get used to them in time. 
You look better dressed even now than half the 
women in Germany; and I am afraid you may 
prove too great an attraction to be resisted by the 
customs officials, as it is.” Then, more seriously, as 
he unfolded a large paper before her, “ Now for 
our story. I have secured an American passport 
for us. It seemed safer, for we can talk English 
together; and besides it will leave you free to be 
natural. I shall not try to conceal my own na- 
tionality, for too much acting doesn’t pay. But I 
am a German Pole — from Gnesen, near Posen, — 


1 66 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

and I have been in America for six years. In New 
York. That is the simplest. I am the proprietor 
of — what shall we say? A tobacco shop? We 
have been married a year or two. Let us fix it 
at two. And I have saved a little money — five 
thousand rubles. It may as well do to be precise 
about that. So I have brought you over here to 
show you a little of my own country. Is there any- 
thing else you can think of? We shall really need 
only the skeleton of a story, of course, and I imag- 
ine you won’t be troubled to tell even that much. 
Once we are past the frontier there will be no diffi- 
culty at all and — the passport has stood fire. It 
was viseed by the Russian Consul this morning 
without question.” 

Frances glanced curiously at the document. 

“ It looks genuine enough,” she commented. 

Zembec laughed. “ It is. According to Euro- 
pean standards your government is rather careless 
in the way it hands out passports, I understand. 
You can get them without going to the police, 
through tourist offices, can you not? At two dol- 
lars each? We — my friends in Paris — carry quite 
an assortment of them, sent over by sympathizers 
in the States. This one makes me about an inch 
too tall ; but even Russian officials know the Ameri- 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 167 

can methods and do not expect too much accuracy. 
The name is all that bothers me. It has been 
anglicized beyond identification. Do you mind 
being called Mrs. Kandetski for a few days? ” 

His wife smiled. “ It is a name that goes with 
these clothes,” she answered. 

There was still considerable time before the de- 
parture of their train. They spent it in rehearsing 
their story, which, true to his original plan, Zembec 
kept down to the simplest skeleton possible. When 
they finally emerged from the house and, carry- 
ing cheap canvas-covered travelling-bags in their 
hands, made their way to the station once more, 
Frances was well versed in her new part. Her 
husband’s high spirits, too, had infected her; and, 
though a trifle pale, she went into the game re- 
solved to play it through bravely and to the last 
card. 

Michael, after a little indecision, purchased 
second-class tickets. It would have been more in 
keeping with the supposed state of his finances to 
travel “ third.” But on the other hand he knew 
that the Russian police at the frontier treat like so 
many dogs the third-class passengers who come 
into their hands. Frances found enough discom- 
fort as it was, for the train was crowded and they 


1 68 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 


were forced to share their compartment with sev- 
eral strangers. As the latter entered, her hus- 
band shot her a warning glance, which she under- 
stood; and through the long hours of darkness 
that ensued, as station after station rolled by and 
they came nearer and nearer to the moment of 
ordeal, she kept silent, or spoke to Michael only 
in the low monosyllabic language of the cramped, 
tired traveller. She had to stand it, to hold up her 
courage, to fight down her growing terror, alone. 
Only once was Michael able to help her. The 
other passengers were dozing, or appeared to be 
dozing. He bent forward and whispered to her 
rapidly. 

“ Keep firm. Don’t lose your pluck; not for an 
instant.” 

She pressed his hand furtively and smiled. But 
she was mortified that she could not equal him in 
bravery and coolness when the risk was his far 
more than her own. And she was more mortified 
to feel that she must be showing her fright. If it 
was visible to him, then why not to the others? 
And one of them might belong to the secret police ! 
As they came into the ghastly gray light of the 
station at Thorn, the last in Germany, her face 
was very white, and her hands were numb. 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 169 

For fifteen minutes, while the train waited, she 
sat cold and motionless. She was conscious that 
the other passengers, her husband among them, 
were stretching themselves, with deep sighs of re- 
lief, and taking down their luggage from the racks 
and papers from their pockets. But she did not 
dare look up at them. The train moved again. 
She kept her face pressed tight against the window 
pane. The lights of Thorn were back of them 
now. She saw a white post at the side of the track. 
Was that the boundary mark? Were they already 
in Russia? Or was it only a railroad sign? And 
slowly other lights came into view, and again the 
train stopped, in another gray and ghastly station. 

She heard the noise of slamming, banging doors 
coming down the length of the train; and nerved 
herself resolutely. Their own door opened. She 
saw standing in front of it three gendarmes, with 
an officer, carrying lanterns; and she saw the 
papers, which her fellow-passengers held ready, 
pass into their visitors’ hands. The gendarmes pro- 
ceeded on their way, and were followed by a rush 
of porters. And she very vaguely heard her hus- 
band’s voice pointing out his property. 

“ We must wait half an hour or so,” he told her. 
“We can go into the restaurant.” As they de- 


1 7 o PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

scended, he led her a little apart from the stream 
of passengers. “ Courage, dearest,” he tenderly 
whispered once more, “ we are perfectly safe.” 

She saw the station platform fenced off into pen- 
like areas, beyond which one could not pass; and 
in the waiting room the doors guarded by more 
gendarmes. Michael brought her to a table, where 
she was given a glass of hot, strong tea. Then, 
like others, they began a weary pacing of the floor, 
waiting for the white-capped officers whom she 
could see behind the glass doors at one end of the 
room to finish the interminable examination and 
registration of the passports. By and by the in- 
spectors closed their books. One of them, with 
two gendarmes, came through the glass door and, 
closing it after him, called out two names. A man 
and woman came forward from different parts of 
the room, trembling. The inspector said some- 
thing to them, and finally the gendarmes escorted 
them back to the train. Frances glanced inter- 
rogatively at her husband ; and saw a smile playing 
about his mouth. The train began to back up, 
taking those two passengers back to Germany. 
And Michael and Frances passed, with the throng 
of the welcome, into the customs room. 


CHAPTER XVI 


F ENN-B ROOK’S office in the British Con- 
sulate in Warsaw, though it looked out 
upon scenes as typically Polish as anything 
in Poland, upon a Cossack-guarded street, upon the 
historic palace of a Potocki, was like Fenn-Brook 
himself a piece of Old England. He was wise 
enough to hang his maps and statistical charts in 
the anteroom, where they could offend only the 
eye of his vice-consul. And so King Edward’s 
portrait and the Arms of England were centered 
in the midst of more congenial subjects. One was 
a sketch of a worn, tired Napoleon, picturing him 
after Leipzig. Over the bookcase and its business 
directories and reports hung a head of Bismarck; 
over the desk a well-painted winter landscape, with 
a deer or two seen feeding through a vista in the 
woods. And in between were smaller prints, of 
hunting scenes and stage-coach days, and some 
foils and a riding crop or two, and a pipe rack. 
Standing out against a warm background of brown 
cartridge paper, the collection emphasized the 


172 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

tastes and practical views of their possessor. The 
rug on the floor was of a darker brown. On the 
center-table documents fought with ash trays for 
resting space, and also with Fenn-Brook’s hat and 
gloves. 

Fenn-Brook’s desk was his housekeeper’s de- 
spair, and he did not allow her to relieve her feel- 
ings. State papers were not respected there ; 
neither, apparently, was his advertising mail 
thrown away. Both were heaped high upon it, leav- 
ing only the smallest possible space for the writing 
of a letter. He was seated before it now, in rid- 
ing clothes, winding up the last of his work pre- 
paratory to his daily canter in the Lazienki Gar- 
dens. Office hours being over, a whiskey and soda 
was standing at his elbow, and he was enjoying a 
cigar. Altogether his appearance was that of a 
comfortable man in comfortable quarters. 

A clerk came in from the outer room, with a 
card which he laid on the consul’s desk. 

“ Will you see him, sir? He says it is only for 
a few minutes.” 

Fenn-Brook nodded, and a large-framed, placid- 
faced young man of some five- or six-and-twenty 
was ushered in, and at once took the floor. 

“Mr. Fenn-Brook?” he asked. “I am afraid 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 173 

I called out of office hours; but I did not know.” 
He spoke with an accent, or rather intonation, 
which marked him as being neither an Englishman 
nor American. “ May I introduce myself? Van 
Schaick. I am the Associated Press correspondent.” 

Fenn-Brook rose and shook hands with him. 
“ You are new, I suppose.” 

“ Very,” responded the newcomer, with a smile. 
“ The day before yesterday, in fact. Fresh from 
America. I am rather new to the whole job, in a 
a way. It is my first post as a foreign corre- 
spondent.” 

“ I pity you,” laughed Fenn-Brook. Then he 
looked up, quickly. “ You don’t belong in the 
States, do you? ” 

“ Not exactly, perhaps. I’m a Belgian by birth, 
with a Dutch name. But I was educated there — 
at Harvard. Any news?” 

Fenn-Brook smiled at the other’s quick change 
to professionalism, and reached among the papers 
on his desk. “ There’s a report on general trade 
conditions here which I have been preparing. You 
may be able to extract the kernel of an article from 
it, if you wish to scan it over.” 

Van Schaick’s face fell. He took the proffered 
sheets and gazed at them rather blankly. 


174 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

“You have nothing political, I suppose ?” he 
finally asked. 

The Englishman laughed again. u Hardly. 
We are really not half so bad as we are painted, 
here in Warsaw, you know. Have you found any- 
thing sensational in your first two days? If so, I 
imagine you are ahead of your confreres . Any- 
thing, I mean, which has really happened? It’s 
Warsaw’s fate, of course, to be a city where some- 
thing is always on the point of happening. But 
nothing ever does actually occur that has any sig- 
nificance. I’m not sure the arrangement is a bad 
one,” he added. “ It keeps you correspondents 
here, and you spend your money here and the town 
is so much the richer. Of course to keep the inter- 
est up it has to provide a bomb-affair now and 
then, or sacrifice an occasional Jew or gendarme, 
in return. But that is little more than ordinary 
lawlessness. Bobbies manage to get themselves 
killed in London and New York, too, and the only 
difference is that here they do it a little oftener and 
a little more theatrically, and are sure of applause. 
Do you expect to be wildly partisan in your Polish 
sympathies?” he asked, abruptly. 

“Aren’t you Englishmen that?” retorted the 
other. 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 175 

“ Ah, but there’s a difference, you know. Eng- 
land and Russia are enemies by heredity. And in 
the midst of its ententes cordiales and agreements 
our government has to keep the feeling up through 
its newspapers. It would be as much as a Times 
correspondent’s position is worth for him to send 
in anything radically Russophile. But you Ameri- 
cans are not so hampered; and there is really no 
reason why, when you report the charge of a Cos- 
sack squadron on a mob, you should emphasize 
the charge itself rather than the fact that the mob 
had been engaged in throwing bombs at some one.” 

“ I don’t believe that to be always the case. 
At any rate it is not the impression we have re- 
ceived. Certainly there must be many instances 
where the bombs are used simply as weapons 
against the Cossacks when they are running the 
people down.” 

“ That may be. It probably is true,” responded 
Fenn-Brook. “ But — a bomb is usually a symbol 
of anarchy; it is always one of an anarchistic tem- 
perament. A peaceably inclined man would hardly 
happen to have a bomb in his pocket at the proper 
moment. They are not carried commonly, like 
handkerchiefs, you know.” 

Van Schaick acknowledged the point. He felt 


i 7 6 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

somewhat at sea, and, in a way, slightly discour- 
aged. He believed in the power of the pen and 
he remembered the glorious name another corre- 
spondent had once made for himself by his de- 
scriptions of the Bulgarian atrocities in Philippop- 
olis; descriptions of such force that Russia and 
Turkey had been driven into war because of them. 
And in his rather youthful enthusiasm he had 
hoped another such field might open itself to him 
here in Warsaw. 

“ You seem disappointed,” laughed Fenn- 
Brook. “ Is it because we cannot promise you 
three columns a day of bloodshed and oppression ? 
Why don’t you take the other side and try to write 
up the city from the Russian standpoint?” he 
asked, after a pause. “ It would create much more 
of a stir, you know; and, unofficially, I should be 
glad to help you. It is rather a hobby of mine, 
that; the theory that a people gets quite the exact 
sort of treatment it deserves. Why not take, for 
instance, the thesis that the Poles are the most 
clever and the most civilized race in the Empire — 
they are, you know — and that if all this oppression 
Russia is supposed to be guilty of were uncalled 
for she would be biting off her own nose. No 
country wants to do that in these days, and if the 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 177 

Poles would only recognize the inevitable and 
settle down to it — try to be good citizens instead 
of bad ones — they would stand where the men 
from the Baltic provinces are now — at the helm. 
But Alexander the First tried putting it in their 
hands once and then found he had to take it away 
again; simply because the more power they had, 
the more they fought and squabbled and plotted. 
The only way Russia can find to keep them quiet 
is never to let them forget her own majesty. 

“ Do you know the story of the Alexander’s 
Cathedral, which is to be dedicated next week; the 
new one, I mean, next to the Hotel de l’Europe? 
Poles will tell you it is a good case in point of what 
they call their oppressed state. The land on which 
it stands, you know, was left to the city by a private 
person, as a permanent park. Russia took it and 
put up that church. Why should she? There are 
not enough Orthodox in the city to fill a third of 
the place. But it stands there as a monument — 
and, by Jove, an impressive monument — to her 
supremacy; one which every inhabitant of Warsaw 
can see every day, and which he is not allowed to 
forget. And the Poles look upon it as the worst 
affront Russia has offered them since the Revolu- 
tion of ’61 was suppressed. But, forced as the 


178 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

idea is, that church and the other things like it 
have had an effect which leniency and a soft hand 
never would have had. The Poles mutter and 
threaten and talk of liberty, and erect their social 
barricades against the Russians, of course, as much 
as ever; but now that is all they do. Or, at 
least, that is all the leaders do. Occasionally some 
outrage occurs, of course, but it springs from the 
lower classes, which cannot be tamed anyhow. 
But the days of conspiracy — real conspiracy — have 
passed, and it is just so much gained by the Poles 
themselves.” 

“ You mean,” asked Van Schaick, “ that the bet- 
ter classes have given in?” 

“ Oh, no ! Not to admit it. They orate as 
much as ever; but now it is only over their liqueurs. 
They don’t stir up the Masses any more, and so the 
Government doesn’t bother about them. Once in 
a while some fanatic starts up and makes a little 
splurge. But nearly all of that kind have been 
weeded out, and those that are left meet with little 
sympathy, even from their fellows. Two years 
ago we had a little fermentation. A man named 
‘Count Zembec, who was a Pole of Poles, and a 

girl By Jove ! that might be something for 

you to do in your spare time. Have you the in- 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 179 

stincts of the American newspaper reporter as well 
as of the correspondent? ” 

“ More or less,” laughed Van Schaick. “ I had 
a murder case assigned me now and then in the old 
days. What is this? A mystery?” 

“ Quite decidedly so. A disappearance, with all 
the important setting for a melodrama. Beyond 
the fact that there was some rather far-reaching 
Polish plot in course of development, no one knows 
much about it, for the Russians hushed the thing 
up. But it had to do with some documents or 
other in the possession of the Governor-General. 
At least so people think. The prime movers were 
two noblemen, this Count Zembec and one of two 
brothers named Pehlen, and Zembec’s cousin, a 
girl who had set all Warsaw by the ears with 
her good looks. Her name was Sobanska — the 
Countess Maria Sobanska, I think — and she was 
a very dare-devil with the men. She was engaged 
to one of the Pehlens at the time, when suddenly 
she outraged all Polish traditions by throwing her- 
self at the head of the Governor-General. It 
ostracized her. Not that the Poles cared anything 
for the immorality of the affair — I am not sure 
that there was any — but it’s a crime, you know, for 
a woman here to fall in love with any Russian at 


180 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

all. And then, suddenly, there came a thunderbolt 
out of the clear sky. 

“ She had an appointment with the Governor 
in his study one evening; but she didn’t keep 
it. An hour before the time set, Zembec and 
one of the Pehlens, her fiance, were arrested; and 
the Countess disappeared. The police rampaged 
Warsaw for her all that night; and the next 
morning they offered a huge reward for her cap- 
ture. I’ve forgotten how much, but it was 
enough. It was a tremendous surprise to society 
here. Zembec and Pehlen were radicals, and had 
been under suspicion before, though Pehlen was in 
the Diplomatic Service. Their Polish convictions 
were highly developed, you know, and they had 
what other Poles lack, the courage of their con- 
victions. But no one had bothered about the 
Countess along those lines. She was regarded 
merely as a fly-away; and yet the rumpus her 
escape stirred up indicated that she was at the bot- 
tom of the whole thing. Where she went to is the 
mystery. She had no time to leave the city, for 
she was seen just before the other arrests took 
place, on her way to her apartments. But she 
never reached them; and the police had already 
been posted for the round-up. She didn’t commit 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 181 

suicide. She was not that kind of a woman. And 
if she had left Russia she would have been heard 
from afterwards. She was not the sort of woman 
to bury herself in a Swiss village, either. And 
so the police believe she is still in Warsaw, and 
they are still hunting for her. I would join in the 
hunt, if I were you — not to betray her, you know, 
but just for the sake of the story.” 

“ If the secret police of Russia cannot find her 
I fear you over-estimate my own powers in that 
line,” responded Van Schaick, laughing. “ And 
besides it is hardly what the Associated Press is 
after. I ” 

“ It is the nearest approach to a full-fledged con- 
spiracy I can offer you,” returned Fenn-Brook. 
“ And besides, I imagine the affair had its ramifi- 
cations. There were a number of smaller arrests, 
of course, and I heard some talk of an emblem 
being found on several of the prisoners — a badge 
of some silly theatrical design or other. That usu- 
ally means at least a more or less highly perfected 
organization, I suppose, with a head committee or 
council; and this one may still be extant. Of 
course nothing would come of it, even if it were — 
or nothing beyond words and then Siberia for a 
poor devil or two. But at the same time ” 


1 82 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

Fenn-Brook’s desk stood by the window; and 
the window looked out upon the Faubourg of 
Cracow, the great palace-lined thoroughfare of 
revolutionary Warsaw. As he spoke his last 
words, his eyes carelessly fell upon the passers-by, 
and then upon one particular figure. It was that 
of a young woman, tall, handsome, fresh com- 
plexioned, with wavy light-brown hair, and in- 
congruously dressed in shabby and ill-fitting gray 
waist and skirt, with a shawl thrown over the 
shoulders. He started forward; then drew as 
hastily back into the shadow; but kept his eyes 
upon her until she had vanished from his narrow 
field of vision. 

“Gad!” he exclaimed beneath his breath. 
After a momentary pause he turned abruptly to 
Van Schaick. 

“You say you were educated at Harvard? ” 

“ Yes.’’ 

“Did you ever know Professor Ware there?” 

“ I heard his lectures, of course.” 

“Ever know his sister?” The question came 
sharply. 

“ Not personally. But I have seen her. She is 
a corker. Why?” 

Fenn-Brook rose and paced the floor without an- 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 183 

swering. Finally he saw a way. He stopped short 
before his companion. 

“ I just remarked that that council might still be 
extant,” he said, tersely. “I say now that it is; 
and that some new move is preparing; that they 
are at their silly struggle again and that you may 
be able to stop it and possibly save some foolish 
people from trouble. I will put you on the track if 
you wish, in return for a promise.” 

The newspaper correspondent became the re- 
porter. 

“ What is it? ” he demanded, briefly. 

“ You are to report to me, not to the police. 
You are not to make your findings public with- 
out my consent. If I tell you to forget them, you 
are to do so.” 

Van Schaick whistled. 

“ The matter seems to lie rather close; doesn’t 
it?” 

“ It does. And as His Majesty’s representative 
here my hands are tied.” 

“ I promise.” 

“ Then,” said Fenn-Brook, “ search here for a 
woman who looks like Miss Frances Ware — who 
is her image. Don’t speak to her, but find out 
where she lives, where she goes. She — I think she 


1 8 4 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

will in time lead you to some members of your 
council and even to Maria Sobanska herself. One 
thing more. The emblem two years ago was a 
gold snake coiled round a roll of paper — a charter 
or something of that kind. This time it is a gold 
snake curled round a cross. And now, for God’s 
sake, go! The woman I mean just passed here, 
going toward the Old City.” 


CHAPTER XVII 


H E hustled Van Schaick from the room, and 
then threw himself into the chair before 
his desk, in concerned meditation. The 
vision of Frances Ware threading the streets of 
Warsaw in that make-shift disguise had given him 
a shock for the severity of which he could hardly 
account. Fenn-Brook was anything but a lady’s- 
man, and he was not given to analyzing the mys- 
teries of the feminine mind. But he had been 
strongly attracted by this American woman. He 
had found in her the attributes he felt should go 
to make a perfect womanly character. More than 
once since his return to Warsaw he had pondered 
over them, and followed his ponderings with an 
attempt to explain away the contradictory some- 
thing that made her jump at the word ‘ Warsaw.’ 
In his ignorance he could read into that attitude 
only the fact that, as an official in touch with the 
Russian Government, she was afraid of him. The 
paradox was so difficult of explanation that he had 
slowly come to believe the basis of it lay only in his 
185 


1 86 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 
imagination. But nevertheless it rankled, and it 
necessarily made her an object of his official sus- 
picion. Fenn-Brook had a somewhat reverential 
regard for the neutrality obligations of a foreign 
consul, in obedience to which he felt he must avoid 
her, and he had determined to do so. But this was 
when Frances Ware was supposedly in Paris. 
Now it became a different matter. The suspicions 
which had dictated his course even while he was 
pooh-poohing the grounds for them were sud- 
denly apparently confirmed in the worst degree. 
And with their confirmation came the mighty call 
of the man within his breast to ward off the blow 
that would surely fall if she persisted in her present 
path. For Fenn-Brook knew his Warsaw too well 
not to understand that, when applied to revolution- 
aries and the Russian police, the adage, “ All 
things come to him who waits,” is less an adage 
than an axiom. 

And yet, as he had told Van Schaick, he felt that 
his hands were tied. He had little faith in the hast- 
ily conceived plan upon which the correspondent 
had been set to work. Warsaw is a big city, and 
more closely packed than big, and the chance of 
finding her again was hardly to be hoped for. One 
other course was open to him; but upon that Fenn- 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 187 

Brook hesitated to embark. In a Russian city, 
where the data of every entering stranger’s passport 
are made a matter of records, the police can tell one 
much. He dared not take them into his confidence. 
But the information in their possession might be 
valuable; and finally, after thoroughly threshing 
out the pros and cons of the attempt, he resolved to 
see what diplomacy could accomplish. Ten minutes 
later he was in the old gray Polish palace which 
has descended from its high estate to become the 
harborage of the gendarmerie, begging leave to 
search among their records for a woman concern- 
ing whose whereabouts his Home Government 
wanted information. He could not tell her name; 
he merely requested such courteous assistance as one 
country may give another. The ruse was success- 
ful. But when Fenn-Brook left the building he 
was more than ever mystified. For he had found 
neither the name of Frances Ware upon their rolls, 
nor, in the list of strangers who had arrived dur- 
ing the past month and not yet departed, the men- 
tion of any unmarried American woman at all. 

The conviction gradually forced itself upon his 
mind that he had been mistaken; that the face he 
had seen through the window was not Frances 
Ware’s at all. It was much better to beliqve that 


1 8 8 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

than to accept the alternative, the proof positive 
of her guilt which her presence in Warsaw under 
false name and false flag would mean. He hur- 
ried back to the consulate and finished his work 
in an easier frame of mind than he had hoped, and 
then, coming out again, mounted the horse which 
his groom held in waiting at the door. 

Red Warsaw is not red all the time, any more 
than Paris is habitually the Paris of the commune. 
The garments of Slavic anarchy are always at hand 
there, ready to be worn if called for, it is true; but 
they are allowed to hang in the closet until a May 
day or a Labor day or a Saint’s day of some espe- 
cially patriotic significance comes along, and in the 
meantime the city decks itself in all the pleasurable 
colors of the rainbow. The better-class Pole 
is, after all, only a Frenchman boiled down and 
concentrated; and in keeping with his character he 
has made his city — or such of it as is not given over 
to the poverty-stricken and the Jew — very Parisian 
indeed in aspect. Fenn-Brook, cantering along 
the bridle-paths of the Lazienki Park, was far re- 
moved from the somber home of oppression which 
despatches in our morning papers conjure up to 
us. The beautiful little pleasure palace which gives 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 189 

its name to the grounds peeps beautifully and 
daintily from behind its screen of trees, uncon- 
scious that it now belongs to grim Russia’s Czar. 
Stanislaus Poniatowski, last king of Poland, erected 
an enduring monument to the artistic tastes of his 
race when he built it, though as a ruler he brought 
Poland to the feet of her enemies. Nor is one apt 
to associate the turbulent populace with marble am- 
phitheaters looking out, over the waters of a lake, 
upon island stages; nor with wonderful formal 
gardens like those of the Belvedere. The demand 
for such things betokens a pleasure-loving people; 
and this the Poles of Warsaw are, far more than 
they are turbulent. 

During the Warsaw season the Bois du Bologne 
itself hardly surpasses, in its crowds and showy 
equipages, the linden-lined Aleja Ujazdowska and 
the drives in the Lazienki Park to which it leads. 
But the season is short. The Polish nobleman is 
migratory; at home on his large estate in the coun- 
try for the summer, then overpowering Warsaw 
with his splendor for the few brief days of the race- 
meet, then on wing for Paris or Rome or Southern 
France; to follow the reverse route in May or 
June, to fly south once more the next October. 

Fenn-Brook, however, had the park very much 


190 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

to himself that afternoon, for the birds were al- 
ready on the wing. The driveways were almost 
vacant; and such few carriages as travelled it were 
more frequently characterized by the plebeian 
numbers on their lamps than by liveried footmen 
on their boxes. Here and there he met a Russian 
officer in the shining blue and white uniform of the 
Guard. But with one exception they were the only 
equestrians to dispute his sole possession of the 
way. The one exception was a civilian on a large 
black horse, who was riding in the same direction 
as the Englishman and refused to be overhauled. 
Fenn-Brook tried to pass him two or three times 
without success, and impatiently voted the man a 
road-hog. But finally, as the bridle-path he was 
following swung near the drive, he was signalled 
from a landau by that ancient and flabby-cheeked 
leader of society, the old Princess Radziwill, and, 
pulling up to greet her, he lost sight of his com- 
petitor. 

The Princess wished him to meet her guest and 
his own countrywoman, Lady Bloxham. It trans- 
pired, however, that Fenn-Brook already knew 
her; that in fact they had been playmates as chil- 
dren. They chatted together for some time, dur- 
ing which Fenn-Brook learned that, the Princess 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 191 

being off for the Riviera that night, Lady Bloxham 
was to move over to the Hotel de l’Europe for a 
few days pending the arrival of her husband. He 
promised to call, which pleased the old lady; for, 
as she assured them both, Warsaw was fast empty- 
ing of its Poles, and Lady Bloxham had obviously 
condemned herself to just so many days of ennui . 

After they had passed on, Fenn-Brook jogged 
about at random for some time, conscious only of 
the exhilarating air and the fact that he was on 
horseback. If he thought of Frances Ware and 
her presumed double at all, it was with a mind re- 
lieved of suspense. Coming to a favorite straight- 
away stretch he gave his mare her head for close 
upon a mile, and then pulled her down to a walk. 
All of which had as it's chance result that his ap- 
proach to a certain thick copse of pine near the 
far border of the park was noiselessly made. As 
he rounded it, he was surprised by the sudden ap- 
parition of that same black horse, its rider, and a 
girl in walking dress. The man had dismounted 
and was holding the animal by the head, close to 
the path; while the girl was writing something, 
evidently at his dictation, using the saddle-flap to 
support her paper. As Fenn-Brook came into 
view, she looked up and gave a little cry of sur- 


192 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

prise. Whether it was this which frightened the 
horse, or that the man, turning suddenly, pulled 
him round so that her skirts struck his legs, Fenn- 
Brook could not see. But the animal, a vicious- 
looking beast, sprang forward, reared, and kicked. 
The girl was luckily too close to the horse’s heels to 
be seriously hurt, but for a moment there was a bad 
mix-up. She swayed an instant, and with a cry of 
fright sank to the ground, letting her papers 
fall from her grasp ; while the man, striving to reach 
her with one hand, and to hold the plunging animal 
with the other, failed in both objects. The horse, 
feeling his freedom, bounded forward past the 
Englishman. Fenn-Brook thrust out his hand and 
grasped the rein as the brute passed, and though 
nearly pulled from the saddle during the struggle, 
held on and finally brought him to a standstill. 
Then, hastily descending, he tied both mounts to a 
tree and hurried to the assistance of the girl. 

She was already on her feet again; for though 
very pale, she had been more frightened than in- 
jured. So far as its bearing on this narrative is 
concerned, the entire incident would have been un- 
worthy of mention, were it not for the fact that a 
second glance told Fenn-Brook he knew the 
woman. He knew her for one of those adventur- 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 193 

ous fly-aways whom governments sometimes find 
useful tools. He had last seen her in Sofia, down 
in the Balkans, where she was mixed up in a Rus- 
sian plot to dethrone Prince Ferdinand; and he had 
heard that since then she had passed over into 
the pay of her native Austria, with headquarters 
in Belgrade; though this was only gossip. It was 
more than a strange coincidence, he felt, that she 
should turn up again here in Warsaw, taking notes 
at the dictation of a Slav in the seclusion of an out- 
of-the-way corner of the Lazienki Park. 

Fenn-Brook looked narrowly at the man. He 
had seen him before, too; but only, so far as he 
could remember, as one of many in cafes or at 
functions. He could not recall his name, and was 
not even sure that he had ever heard it. Such few 
words as passed between them on the spot did not 
assist his memory. The man was curt and un- 
gracious, despite the aid rendered him, and clearly 
anxious that the Englishman should be gone. And 
nothing loath, Fenn-Brook soon acted upon the 
implied suggestion, with no further explanation of 
what he must at least regard as an interesting 
incident. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


F ENN-BROOK was correct in doubting that 
Van Schaick could overtake his quarry. By 
the time their hasty compact had been sealed 
and Van Schaick had left the consulate, Frances 
was lost in the pleasure-seeking throng that con- 
verts the broad Krakowski Przedmiescie of War- 
saw into a Parisian boulevard. Had she been curi- 
ous-minded as she walked, the main thoroughfare 
of the Polish capital would have offered much 
food for her observation. It is a street of con- 
trasts. In the open cafes which line it, jutting out 
upon the sidewalks, you hear all the languages of 
Europe. The Polish well-to-do dart from one 
place to the other, their only vocation in life, ap- 
parently, being to drink a melange here, a liqueur 
there, to chat and laugh with their friends, and to 
forget the tragedy of their surroundings. And 
meanwhile the ancient palaces which overlook the 
street have passed from the hands of Polish noble- 
men into those of the Russian Government and 
become its administration offices. The shaggy, 
194 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 195 

brown-clad squads of soldiers who parade below 
their windows are Russian only. The policemen on 
the sidewalks are Russian only. At the mouth of 
each side street, a mounted Cossack, in tall, red- 
crowned astrakhan cap and long black coat which 
hides a pair of scarlet trousers, looks sullenly down 
from over his horse’s ears upon the passing crowd, 
like a vulture looking for prey. Every stone in the 
street itself has been stepped on by the feet of 
anarchic mobs or charging cavalry. Most of them 
have been wet by the blood of would-be patriot or 
master. But the happy, fickle Pole laughs and 
sings and gads about while he may. Who knows, 
says he, but that other stones may be wet to- 
morrow ? 

But Frances saw none of these things. She was 
walking rapidly, with eyes directed straight ahead, 
and with resolute though slightly pale and anxious 
face. She continued hurriedly onward beyond the 
point where the cafes cease and the idlers turn to re- 
trace their steps. At the entrance of the Zamowski 
Square, terrible in its memories of revolution and 
massacre, she paused a moment for a break in the 
almost continuous line of scurrying droschkies that 
converge there. When the opportunity came she 
darted across the street and followed along the 


1 96 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

western side of the square. The maneuver placed 
all the distance possible between her and the low 
white palace on the other side, which, however 
neat and peaceful-looking, symbolized to her the 
danger that threatened her husband. For behind 
its walls and the ever-present guard of Cossacks 
sat the Russian Governor-General and his ogre 
staff. On reaching the further end of the square 
she hesitated once more, though barely perceptibly, 
at the entrance of a dark, dirty, ill-paved street. 
The hand which held her shawl tightened mo- 
mentarily, and she shuddered. Then she turned 
into the narrow alley. 

It was not the first time she had shuddered as 
she reached that spot; not the first time that, as the 
evil smell of the congested Stare Miasto, the Old 
City, struck her nostrils, she had hesitated, almost 
unable to bear the ordeal longer, then recovered 
herself and forced her feet to carry her still on- 
ward. For she had been in Warsaw four days; 
and this was the end of her fourth effort to escape 
from, to forget for the moment, herself, her hus- 
band, her secrecy, her surroundings. Every day 
at three o’clock she had made her way, over a 
route carefully prescribed by Michael, from her 
rooms in this Street of Swieto Janska through the 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 197 

Zamowski Square to the Saxon Gardens, and for 
one brief hour had drunk in the pure air of Heaven. 
Heaven had become to her the sight of laughing 
men and women, the noise of playing children, the 
companionship, if only to the eyes, of those who 
seemed to have no worries, no secrets, no dreads. 
In the crowded promenades and paths of the Saxon 
Gardens she lived — for one short hour a day; then 
went back to her waiting and suspense. 

She had but a few steps further to go. Though 
the Street of Swieto Janska runs from the most 
aristocratic section of Warsaw to the most sordid; 
though one end opens upon the palace of the Gov- 
ernor and the other upon the ancient square which 
has been abandoned to the dirt and filth of the low- 
est Polish scum, the connection is established in one 
short block. Zembec’s lodgings, halfway between 
the two extremes, lay on the very edge of humble 
respectability. 

With tight-shut lips she hurried down the reek- 
ing alley and turned into a dark passageway, 
through heavy, rust-eaten doors of iron scroll- 
work. The doors themselves showed how old was 
the quaint, four-storied house she had entered. 
The old coat-of-arms over them, and the gaudily 
painted model of a galleon worked into the stuc- 


I 9 8 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

coed gray wall, showed that it had once belonged 
to some forgotten Hanseatic merchant. The dank, 
malodorous vapours condensing upon the unwhite- 
washed arches of the passageway, the littered stone 
courtyard in the rear, the towsled, dirty children 
playing there in a pool of stagnant water, showed 
the low estate into which it had since fallen. As 
Frances turned to go up the winding stone stair- 
way, she was forced to make way for a tragic- 
faced, black-robed old Jew, carrying down upon 
his bent back a jangling assortment of tin pails. 
He smiled furtively as he passed, and slunk away 
to the next house. Frances, with her handkerchief 
at her nostrils, went on up to the third story and 
opened the door on the right. 

“Has my husband come back yet?” 

She asked the question in French. The old man 
to whom she addressed it sprang hastily from his 
chair. 

“ Not yet, Madame.” 

He stepped forward and received the gray shawl 
which she had been wearing. “ Will Madame 
have tea ? ” he asked. 

Frances nodded, and then, a little wistfully, 
“ Here?” 

He hesitated, with a slight flush. “ It would — 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 199 

Someone might perhaps come. In Madame’s bed- 
room, as usual, perhaps?” 

She wearily assented, and the old man hobbled 
from the room. The next moment he was 
back. 

“ Has Madame noticed the new curtains?” 

Frances followed his look toward the window, 
and uttered a pleased exclamation. 

“ Oh, for me? Did my husband ” 

“ Yes, Madame. He wished to give you at least 
all the comfort in his power. We talked it over 
together and it seemed safe. The rooms are so 
bare, — so different from what Madame is accus- 
tomed to. And one or two of my neighbors have 
some. Levenitsky, on the floor below, has still 
handsomer ones; and he is only a cab-driver. So 
why not I, who have been a servant in the house 
of the old Count Zembec? The old Count Zem- 
bec,” he went on, with a shake of his white head. 
“ Ah, Madame, what a change I have seen. It 
would have broken my master’s heart could he 
have known what was coming; first, Monsieur 
Michael exiled, and the estates confiscated, and 
now Monsieur Michael back here in hiding; in 
Warsaw, where his family have given leaders to 
the people for generations! Only think of it, 


200 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 
Madame ; the old Count’s son hiding in the rooms 
of his servant.” 

Frances smiled at him bravely. “ The old 
Count, Johann, would have been proud to know 
he had a servant so loyal.” 

He flushed joyously. “ I — I am forgetting 
Madame’s tea. In Madame’s bedroom, she 
said?” 

“ Yes,” she again assented. But when he was 
gone she threw herself into a chair before the 
great porcelain stove, and with her face between 
her clenched hands, tried to think. Poor Frances 
Ware! It was harder than she had anticipated, 
this waiting. She felt no terror. Four days of 
coming and going in secrecy, and still in safety, 
had conquered her first great dread of the name 
of Warsaw. Neither was it because she was un- 
comfortably quartered. Frances could stand dis- 
comfort, and though the windows of the old family 
servant’s rooms in which they had taken refuge 
looked out upon the garbage-strewn area of the 
Old Square and all the mingled odors of Polish 
poverty steamed past the door, the floors and the 
linen were at least neat and clean. Though 
Michael’s precaution had forced her into sordid 
surroundings, it had stopped short with that. The 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 201 


respect and devotion with which Johann waited 
upon her every wish, when he could do so without 
attracting attention, was no less pathetic than sweet 
to her. The trouble lay, not in what Michael had 
brought her to, but in Michael himself; in his 
obstinate, though tacit, refusal to seek or permit 
her aid. The sacrifices she had already made 
were too great for her not to wish to make more; 
to share all the burdens he was carrying. But he 
would have none of it. He went early, came late; 
went with a parting kiss and a smile, returned with 
eager show to hear of all the petty ways she had 
found to while away the day. But there their 
partnership ceased. Tender and solicitous he was, 
and eager to assist her in every way but one. Re- 
garding his own affairs, which should have been 
theirs in common, he was dumb. And Frances 
was too proud to force him into the telling, though 
to remain ignorant terribly shook her confidence in 
her hold upon him. She saw him in a new light. 
With the first breath of Warsaw air the vivacity, 
cheerfulness, enthusiasm she had loved had be- 
come of the surface; and beneath them she saw the 
outlines of grimmer characteristics. They were 
very vague as yet, and she could not analyze them. 
That she could not do so frightened her, gave her 


202 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

a sense of difficulties to come, of unpreparedness. 
Throughout her dealings with Michael, Frances 
had never seen the man who, that night in the 
Siberian forest, shaved his head in a lather of 
mud. 

He found her sitting despondently there when 
he came home, two hours earlier than she had 
been taught to expect him. He was at her side in 
an instant, with an arm about her neck. 

“Blue, dearest?” he exclaimed in protestation. 
“ You mustn’t be that. It hurts me. It’s brutal 
of me to keep you here, in those things ” — he 
glanced down at her shoddy clothes — “ but ” 

He stopped. “But what?” asked Frances. 

“ Nothing. I am having unexpected trouble. 
It is nothing that you could understand. So why 
bother both heads? Have you been to the 
Gardens? ” 

She shrugged her shoulders. It was always that 
way, she told herself. Why should she expect any- 
thing different? She answered him with an 
equally uncommunicative “ yes.” And then, in 
spite of her will, “ You are home early.” 

“ Yes. I have done all that could be done to- 
day.” Suddenly he realized the strange tone in 
which she had spoken. “What is it, Frances?” 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 203 

he demanded, gently. “ What’s the trouble, dear- 
est? Have you been frightened in some way? ” 

“ No,” she answered, wistfully. 

“Is it too much for you? Shall we give the 
whole thing up and go back to Paris? I should 
have known you would be tested beyond your 
endurance.” 

She turned quickly in her chair and, reaching up, 
took his face in her hands. “ No, it is not that. 
We must stay till you have finished. But, oh, 

Michael ” Her pleading met only wonder in 

his eyes, and she did not finish. 

“ But what, dearest? ” 

“ Nothing,” she answered. “ Only Noth- 

ing that you would understand.” 

“ Nothing that I — your own husband — would 
understand ! ” 

A sudden light came into his eyes. “ You are 
not — you are not ill.” 

“ No.” 

“ Then I give you up,” he answered, helplessly. 
“ I have never seen you like this, dearest. And 

I thought that coming home early Come; 

brace up. Be your own dear self. Have you had 
tea? It is not often that we can take it together 
nowadays.” 


2o 4 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

“ It is standing there in my bedroom. I’ll 
fetch a second cup for you.” She could but accept 
her defeat bravely. There was no hope that he 
ever would comprehend. 

He watched her anxiously as she walked across 
the room. “ It’s impossible,” he muttered to him- 
self. “ Impossible.” And in the same breath, as 
if to make sure, “ You have had no headache to- 
day, have you, dearest? ” 

“ No; not to speak of,” she answered from the 
pantry, with returning spirit. “ A little this morn- 
ing, but it was gone by ten.” She came to the chair 
again. “ Michael, dear,” she whispered, running 
the fingers of her free hand through his hair, 
“ don’t mind me and my moods. I wish to help 
you in the way you deem best. And I am a woman. 
And now — come in and have a very secret cup with 
me.” 

“ Make it,” he answered, joyful once more. 
“ I’ll be in in a moment. I have a letter to write.” 

He joined her a few minutes later, with the letter 
in his hand. He was more than usually cheery and 
affectionate, and laughed Frances into a complete 
return of her good spirits. When they had fin- 
ished, he pushed back his chair. 

“ Will you do a commission for me, Frances — 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 205 

an errand? It’s nearly dark. Are you afraid to 
go over to Praga for me? ” 

Frances jumped for joy. “Afraid!” she ex- 
claimed, impetuously. “ Don’t you know that that 
is what has been the matter with me; the desire to 
help you when you wouldn’t have my help? The 
only thing I can stand no longer is to sit here in 
idleness when I might be helping. T ell me what 
you want.” 

Zembec looked rather startled, but recovered 
himself. “ I’m sorry,” he said, penitently. “ I 
could not guess that; could I, dearest? And until 
now there has been really nothing you could do. 
It has not been work for a woman. But now — 
this letter — it will require tact.” 

“ Tell me,” she commanded, eagerly. 

“ It’s to my cousin — never mind her name. It is 
better you should not know it. Two years ago — 
when my own trouble occurred — the Russian police 
tried to arrest her as well; but she escaped. In- 
stead of fleeing the city, as the rest of us would 
have done, had we received a warning, she merely 
dressed up as a Russian Sister of Charity and ap- 
plied for a position at the Russian Orphan Asylum 
here. Yes, and obtained it! She has been there 
ever since. Do you know what that asylum is, 


206 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

dearest? It is a place to which they take our 
orphans, our Polish orphans, and bring them up to 
forget their race and country. It’s small, for we 
fight to keep our children away from them. But 
it does harm to the cause. So Mar — my cousin — 
has been at work there two years undermining its 
miserable teachings — buried there among her 
enemies.” 

He paused a moment, his face, as she had 
seen it so often in the old days, aglow with en- 
thusiasm. “ Is it not a noble task, that? To 
fight them so on their own ground? How I wish 
I could — But I would never have thought of it. 
Not another soul of us would have conceived such 
an idea; nor have had the bravery to carry it out 
after it was conceived. But my cousin 

“ What I want, Frances, is this,” he went on 
with one of his quick changes. “ To get the money 
for some of our land I must have her signature 
to certain papers. I cannot go to her myself; 
neither can my friends. We could not get in 
speech with her. And even if we could, there is a 
good chance that a visit from one of us would turn 
suspicion upon her. She has kept in isolation from 
all of us for two long years. But you might man- 
age it. This letter in my hand is for her. I want 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 207 

you to try to deliver it. If you can, dearest,” he 
whispered, eagerly, “ my work is done, — or nearly 
done. We shall be out of Warsaw within three 
days — en route for America. Would you try to 
play the part? You will need pluck, dearest; 
pluck and presence of mind; and a mistake would 
place her life and mine in jeopardy.” 

Frances did not answer for the moment, nor re- 
spond even by a look to the eagerness that shone in 
her husband’s eyes. She had had before this a sus- 
picion of the trait in Michael’s character which 
blinded him to risks and rendered him oblivious of 
the evils the pursuit of his plans might bring to 
others. But she was face to face with it for the 
first time. It was one thing to have staked their 
own safety against their future happiness. That 
was their own game. To involve a third person — 
another woman — in their gambling was a step 
which, in all fairness, she could not take. 

Zembec waited in suspense; then rose and went 
softly to the door. With his hand on the knob he 
turned. 

“ Never mind, dearest. It’s much too hard for 
you, I know. I must risk it myself — so that — we 
can get away.” 

“ Wait,” she commanded, and stood facing him. 


208 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 


“ I have not hesitated because of fear. I am not 
afraid. Otherwise I should not have come to 
Warsaw with you — nor let you come. And now 
that we are here we must do our work. But, 
Michael, our work and its consequences must be 
our own. If we can get your money fairly, with 
danger only to ourselves, well and good. If not, 
if it has come to this, that to gratify your selfish 
pride before my people we must risk sending an- 
other woman to Siberia, then I shall stop. And I 
ask you, in the name of my love for you, to stop 
too. If we should go on, and the worst should 
happen, you and I would be like murderers, 
Michael — and then where would we find the peace 
of mind we seek? ” 

“ Dearest ! ” he protested. “ I ” 

But Frances would not hear him. “ We must 
not think of it,” she interrupted, vigorously. “ If 
your plans have miscarried, if you can do no more 
alone, let us go away — back to Paris — to-night. 
But ” 

“ Not until I can do nothing more,” he broke 
in, stubbornly. “ You may go and leave me here 
alone if you wish. It would be the better course, 
I think. I am exposing you to too much risk as it 
is. But in this particular instance you have mis- 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 209 

judged me. I would not commit murder or send 
my cousin to Siberia for a few rubles. You know 
that, dearest. I should never have suggested the 
matter to you unless we had worked out a simple 
plan. And in speaking as I did I meant only to 
warn you beforehand that caution was necessary — 
but not excessive caution. Do you think I would 
risk losing you, yourself, by sending you on any 
foolhardy errand? ” He looked into her face for 
signs of returning confidence, but found none. 

“ Frances,” he cried, in desperation, “ we must 
not give it up without one more effort. Listen! 
Let me tell you of my plan. If you find it unsafe, 
if you think yourself unequal to it, then we will 
go back to Paris with empty hands. Isn’t that 
fair? ” he pleaded. 

“ It sounds so,” answered Frances, gravely. 

“ Then this is the idea,” he hurried on. “ It 
may or may not succeed. But it entails almost 
no risk. You must go over to the asylum and in- 
quire for a child there. Here is its name; Przmin- 
ski. But inquire only in English. Don’t use a 
single word even of French. The child left there 
a year ago. You are making inquiries on behalf 
of some relations in America. They won’t under- 
stand you, of course ; but hold to it until they send 


2io PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

for some one who knows the language. They are 
sure to do so if you are persistent. And the 
chances are that the some one will be my cousin, 
who speaks English as well as you or I.” He 
pulled a photograph from his pocket. “ You will 
be able to recognize her by that. If any one else 
is called in, go on with your story. Say anything 
you like. But if she herself comes, and you are sure 
no one else is present who can understand you, 
just say to her ‘ I have a letter from the Snake 
and Charter.’ Unless my cousin has changed very 
radically, she will manage to see you alone long 
enough for you to deliver it.” 

“And that is all?” asked Frances. 

“ Yes. I’m not quite such a brute as you thought 
me; am I, dearest?” he laughed. 

“ You wish me to go now? ” 

“ Yes. I must ” He stopped. 

“ Must what? ” 

“Hurry to get you out of Warsaw,” he re- 
sponded, easily. Then, more seriously: “You are 
a good, loyal wife to me, Frances. I knew I 
could count upon you if once you understood. 
You will have no trouble, I am sure; or I should 
not dream of sending you. And now for your 
directions. It is a long way over to Praga, but 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 21 1 


you had best do it on foot. After you cross the 
bridge, take the second turn to the right. Seven 
or eight squares on, you will see a long, three- 
storied building of white stone on your left. That 
is the asylum. You can hardly miss it; for it 
stands alone among low shops. But if you should 
by any chance have difficulty, ask the nearest gen- 
darme for the Marjuski Priut. And now, dearest, 
go, with a good heart. Merely keep your wits 
about you.” 

He opened the door and kissed her as she went 
out, with the unaddressed letter hidden beneath 
her shawl. 


CHAPTER XIX 


I T was already nearly dark when Frances 
started on her errand, and Praga, the suburb 
of Warsaw across the Vistula, was unknown 
territory. But Michael’s directions had been pre- 
cise, and she found the asylum without difficulty. 
Once there she acted her part well, and the result 
turned out as her husband had anticipated. The 
letter was delivered and Frances found herself once 
more in the street, fighting her way back to the city 
against the stream of homeward-bound workmen. 

The interview had certainly been a strange one, 
for the first to be held between Michael Zembec’s 
wife and a member of his family. The beautiful, 
dark-eyed, wilful-mouthed girl who had come to 
her assistance and to whom, after a moment of 
trial, she had given that strange password, had 
shown neither surprise nor hesitation upon receiv- 
ing it. She had merely turned upon her heel in 
business-like manner, led Frances into an inner 
office, taken down a heavy book and, with eyes fol- 
lowing one finger as she ran down a list of names 


212 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 213 

on the first page, had whispered “Well?” and 
waited. 

“ I have a letter for you.” 

“ Slip it under the cover.” 

Standing close beside her, Frances had done so. 
That was apparently all of it. But after the girl 
had finished her mock examination, she had added 
a brief word more. 

“ The Przminski child left here over a year ago. 
Say they can count on me whenever I am needed.” 

And Frances, doing her best to conceal the 
cheeks which she knew were pale, thanked her and 
hurried past the officials in the outer office, into the 
open air. 

“ They can count on me whenever I am 
needed!” Frances pondered over that message 
as she elbowed her way along. She was thor- 
oughly frightened by it, yet struggled with all her 
resolution not to give it a false interpretation. 
Either it was a mistake, or her husband had 
brought her to Warsaw under false pretenses, to 
engage in another of his conspiracies. She went 
carefully over in her mind all that Michael had 
told her; recalled every expression of his face dur- 
ing its telling. It could not be that he was playing 
her false; that he could descend to the very use 


214 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

of her, his wife, in such a deception. It was con- 
trary to all the love she knew he had for her. And 
his cousin had not read the letter, had no means of 
knowing what it contained. That, after her mys- 
terious method of delivering it, the girl should 
identify her with the party of recalcitrants was 
natural. And the assurance that she herself was still 
with them in heart was but a natural sequel to 
that belief. In the light of what Frances herself 
knew and what Michael had told her, and of the 
girl’s isolation, the mistake was really one that 
might have been expected; and, to combat the be- 
lief that it was a mistake, there was only the readi- 
ness, the preparedness, with which she had found 
the other armed. Little by little she gained as- 
surance, and then came repentance that she had 
mistrusted her husband even for the moment. 
Glad at heart, she hastened onward the faster to 
tell him of her lapse from faith and beg his for- 
giveness. 

With the dismissal of her apprehensions the 
balance swung far to the other side. She was 
happy and confident, and saw distinctly the end of 
her troubles. It was a cold October evening, and 
a brisk wind was blowing down the Vistula, bring- 
ing red cheeks to the pedestrians crossing the long 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 215 

iron Bridge of Alexander. Frances drew her gray 
shawl more closely round her throat as the bracing 
air touched her, and she walked the faster, with a 
steady swinging gait and her head held high. She 
was herself again, the Frances Ware of old. She 
neither saw nor cared for whom she might meet. 
And so she did not notice a tall, heavily-built 
young man who stood leaning against the rail 
halfway down the long approach to the bridge 
on the Warsaw side. He had been gazing down 
below at the lantern-lighted square of Cossack 
barracks that lie behind the terrace of the palace, 
idly watching the stabling of the horses for the 
night. But, just as Frances reached him, he turned 
to resume his stroll and met her eyes. He him- 
self was in the shadow, but an electric light played 
full upon her happy face, and he knew he was not 
mistaken. He had seen Frances Ware too many 
times, skirting the college yard at Cambridge, not 
to know her again. A gasp of amazement broke 
from his lips, and he half reached to take off his 
hat. But he checked himself, in remembrance of 
what Fenn-Brook had said; and, stepping aside as 
she passed him, wheeled about and casually fol- 
lowed her into the city. 

Frances walked blithely, ready to burst into 


2 1 6 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

song, unconscious of the man at her heels. She 
cut across the Zamowski Square and plunged into 
the Swieto Janska without hesitation. Van 
Schaick, more and more perplexed as the pursuit 
continued, saw her disappear in the archway be- 
neath the old galleon that flashed its red and blue 
sides in the flickering light from an antique lantern. 
Then he crossed to the other side of the street and 
kicked his heels against the wall, at a loss what to 
do next. 

“ Of all the amazing things,” he muttered under 
his breath. “ That was Digger Ware’s sister as 
surely as I am in Warsaw. But in those clothes! 
And here in the Altstadt ! If Fenn-Brook — Damn 
it, it can’t be she ! Or else — ah ! ” 

The house had been in darkness. One of the 
windows upstairs suddenly became illumined and 
he saw a figure push the curtains aside and lean 
out to close the solid wooden shutter. 

“ Third story front, last to the right,” he noted, 
half audibly. “That must be an inside room; or 
else it is a narrow one, next the hall. She seems to 
be at home.” 

Van Schaick waited a few minutes more, but 
nothing further happened; then he turned thought- 
fully away and made for the British Consulate. 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 217 

It was the only thing to do, he thought. Fenn- 
Brook had shown a very vital interest in the 
woman who passed the Consulate that morning. If 
this was she, the Englishman ought perhaps to 
know it. If it was she and Frances Ware at the 
same time, he proposed to know it himself. But 
that earnest old Digger Ware’s sister could be here 
in Warsaw, in league with that Maria Sobanska 
and a lot of other Polish ruck, as Fenn-Brook sus- 
pected, was well beyond belief. 

He caught Fenn-Brook at home, and made his 
report. The consul took it very placidly. “ It is 
not she,” he said, in comment. “ I have practi- 
cally established that fact. I am afraid your first 
experience as a correspondent here has been to go 
on a wild-goose chase; unless you can use the 
double in a romance, you know. By gad ! did you 
ever see so extraordinary a resemblance?” In 
Fenn-Brook’s heart, however, a curious feeling of 
unrest battled against his convictions, and finally 
worked itself out. “ I am not sure,” he ruminated, 
thoughtfully, “ that it would do any harm to take 
a chance shot on our being wrong.” He took pen 
and paper, wrote a few lines, and handed them to 
Van Schaick. “ If we are mistaken, that ought at 
least to bring an echo. Don’t you think so? ” 


2 1 8 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

Frances, to her surprise, found the rooms empty 
when she arrived. She had pictured her husband 
as eagerly awaiting her return; for, say what one 
would, her errand had been of a delicate nature, 
not lightly to be imposed or undertaken. But in- 
stead of his thankful congratulations she was met 
only by silence and darkness. She groped about 
until she found the lamp and a match; and then, 
when she could see, looked about her for some indi- 
cation of what had happened. But the room told 
nothing, except that the two men had evidently left 
early. There were no signs, at least, that Johann 
had begun preparations for supper before going. 
Frances felt a lump rise in her throat. Had 
Michael been discovered and arrested? She was 
able to banish the thought almost immediately. 
The Russian police, she considered, would have 
left some one to watch the house, had that been the 
case. And though the high spirits in which she 
had come back were a little dampened, Frances 
closed the blinds and sat down to wait bravely until 
her errant husband should return. 

An hour came and went. Frances was paying 
dearly for that brief period of exaltation. The 
reaction from it, the poverty-stricken, feebly- 
lighted room, the loneliness, brought her to a de- 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 219 

gree of depression such as even yet she had not 
lived through. For the first time she told herself 
that Michael was asking too much, that he was in- 
considerate and cruel. And then, as if ashamed of 
herself for questioning him, she tried to conquer 
her bitterness by writing to her brother; to give 
him that promised weekly assurance that she was 
happy with Michael. Thus far she had sent only 
enthusiastic reports. But to-night, after re-reading 
what she had written, she tore up the letter. It 
would never do. There was too much between the 
lines which Howard, not understanding, would 
be sure to misinterpret. She tried again, with 
equally poor success ; and then, utterly despondent, 
gave up. 

Some half an hour later she was roused from the 
bowed position in which she had thrown herself 
by the sound of a shuffling, stumbling footstep on 
the stairs. She heard it coming along the pas- 
sageway and halt before the door. She knew a 
knock would follow; and she was alone, unable to 
speak Polish, unable to account for her presence. 
Visitors had come before; but they had always 
been friends of Johann, who accepted her and her 
American nativity as a matter of course. She had 
never been forced to bear the brunt herself, to 


220 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

explain her being there, to ward off suspicion, 
alone. If it should be a gendarme ! Frances, with 
one hand on the knob and the other clenched be- 
hind her, heard the newcomer’s knuckles touch the 
door, surprisingly low down. She opened it 
slowly, a third of the way, and peered out, pre- 
pared for almost anything. Then she burst into 
laughter. The ray of light that entered the hall 
struck upon a boy; a ragamuffin of the neighbor- 
hood, with a letter in his hand. 

He held it toward her, and said something in 
Polish. But she did not hear him. Her eyes were 
fixed upon the letter; and she needed all her will- 
power to control herself. For the envelope was ad- 
dressed, not in her husband’s name nor hers, nor 
in their assumed name; but simply to “Miss 
Frances Ware.” 

The boy followed her into the room, and stood 
gaping while she turned the missive over and over. 

“ Where — who — gave this to you? ” she asked, 
with apparent steadiness. But suddenly she real- 
ized that it was not steadiness at all; else she would 
not be trying to talk English to a Polish street- 
urchin. She did the next worst thing; hustled 
him from the room with his hand clutching a gold 
piece which, had the boy been able to reason, would 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 221 

probably have awakened suspicions of her identity 
as anything but a fairy princess; and which cer- 
tainly would have awakened the suspicion of any 
gendarme to whom he might by chance account for 
its possession. 

Alone in her room, Frances tore open and threw 
away the soiled envelope. Inside was a plain piece 
of paper, with these few lines on it: 

Miss Ware : For your brother’s sake, for your 
friends’ sake, for your own sake, I beg you to leave 
Warsaw before it is too late. F. B. 

Frances read it over twice, very slowly. Then 
she picked up the envelope, and quickly crushed 
both into a ball. The ball she put in the stove, 
and held a match to it. When only a crinkly mass 
of charcoal remained, she went to her room and 
threw herself, fully dressed, upon the bed. Zem- 
bec found her there on his return an hour later, 
sunk in the sleep of the exhausted. He sat down 
on the edge of the bed and gently took her hand 
in his own. 

“ Poor girl,” he whispered. “ It is too much of 
a strain for you to bear.” 

By and by, under the influence of his presence, 


222 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 


she stirred restlessly, then opened her eyes. She 
started at the sight of her husband sitting there so 
silently by her side. But the love and tenderness 
in his face helped her. She did not speak at once, 
but Fenn-Brook’s warning went by the board. 
Michael watched her anxiously, as she rearranged 
her hair before the mirror. 

“ I must have fallen asleep waiting for you,” 
she said, simply. “ How late is it? ” 

“ About nine,” answered Michael. “ I was 
called out. Johann is preparing supper now. Did 
you succeed?” 

“ Yes. There was no difficulty at all. And do 
you know what a ridiculous mistake she made? 
She thought I came from — her Polish friends ; and 
she sent them back a message that she could be 
counted upon whenever they needed her.” 

Michael laughed good-naturedly. “ I suppose it 
frightened you. Did you think I was back in the 
old courses again, dearest?” 

She threw her arms about him. “ That would 
be to think that my husband was deceiving me, 
Michael.” Zembec drew her head to his shoulder 
and caressed her. And so she missed the spasm of 
pain that shot across his face. 


CHAPTER XX 


W HEN Frances awoke the next morning 
her first recollection was, not of Maria 
Sobanska’s message nor Fenn-Brook’s 
interference, but of the last words she had had with 
her husband. The remembrance of them served to 
start her well on the day. She was refreshed and 
confident and, for the first time since her arrival 
in Warsaw, felt no need to summon up her reserve 
stock of courage. The contents of the note she had 
burned could not, of course, be utterly dismissed 
from her mind, but she reviewed them calmly and 
accepted them at their face value ; as a mistaken at- 
tempt to help her. She remembered how often she 
had openly dodged discussion of Polish questions 
with Fenn-Brook and came to the conclusion that 
he, too, had remembered them and then, chancing 
to see her enter the house in partial disguise, had 
hastily put two and two together to make five. 
And to add to her peace of mind, Michael re- 
mained at home all the morning. He would have 
to meet his cousin at the rendezvous set for late in 


223 


224 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

the afternoon, he told her, but in the meantime 
there was nothing to do. 

About two o’clock a stranger called. Frances, 
after luncheon, had retired to her room to do some 
sewing. She had always made a point of keeping 
out of the way of visitors; but on this occasion 
she happened to be sitting directly in front of the 
door, where she could work and talk to Michael 
at the same time. Her lap was full of things and 
she was unable to rise quickly enough when the 
knock came; and once the stranger had seen her, 
there was, of course, no further use in concealing 
herself. So she remained there quietly, in full 
view of the man. The stranger spoke in Polish 
to Johann, so she could not understand what passed 
between them; but she saw that Johann evidently 
assented to what was said. Then, apparently, they 
took up some subject about which he had doubts. 
Looking into the mirror, Frances saw the stranger 
glance questioningly in her direction. He made 
some new suggestion, which Johann was on the 
point of opposing when Michael intervened. The 
stranger went away shortly afterward, apparently 
satisfied. After the door was shut and the sound of 
his footsteps had died away, Michael came into her 
room with a dubious expression on his face. 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 225 

u I shall never cease to tax your patience, dear- 
est,” he began, hesitatingly. “ I’ve something ter- 
ribly hard to ask of you now.” 

But Frances’s good spirits were not to be damp- 
ened. “ I’m not afraid of you, Michael,” she re- 
turned, with a smile. “What is it? Something 
worse than yesterday’s errand?” 

“ It is — more humiliating, I fear. May I begin 
at the beginning? You will see what a hole I was 
in and that I couldn’t do otherwise.” He sat down 
on the edge of the bed. “ It was like this,” he 
went on, apologetically. “ You see, since — the 
breaking up of my father’s family — Johann has 
been supporting himself by going out to serve at 
large dinners and things of that sort. The fel- 
low who was just here came to engage him for 
one for this evening. It’s a big affair at Prince 
Potocki’s, in honor of some Russian dignitaries 
who are here to attend the consecration of the 
Alexander’s Cathedral next week. And, after 
Johann had accepted, the man wanted him to bring 
some woman to help in the pantry. Johann told 
him he didn’t know of any, and then, confound 
the impudent fellow, he asked who you were. Of 
course we had to hold to our original story, and 
then — well, you see, there was nothing else for me 


226 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

to do but say that you would go. Do you mind 
very much, dearest? It was just — Of course peo- 
ple really in the class we are claiming to belong to 
wouldn’t throw away an easy chance to earn a 
ruble or two. I had to be consistent. We are too 
near the end, you know, dearest, to take the slight- 
est chance of arousing suspicion.” 

Frances burst out laughing. “ I should never 
have forgiven you if you had refused,” she broke 
in. “Why, it will be fun!” And then, noticing 
his amazement, “ Are you afraid of your poor 
pride, you dear?” she asked. “I haven’t a long 
line of haughty Polish nobility behind me, as 
you have, you know, ready to turn over in their 
graves at the slightest let-down.” 

Zembec laughed in turn, though a little uneasily. 
With his long training and traditions, he could not 
quite reconcile himself to his wife’s doing menial 
work, even under such circumstances. But the 
thing was settled, shock to his pride or no, and 
could not be undone. And Frances regarded it as 
so small a matter. 

Michael left her at live, to keep, he said, his 
appointment with his cousin; and an hour later 
she started off with Johann. The poor old serv- 
ant had, from the first, been horrified at the idea 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 227 

and, do what Frances would, maintained his atti- 
tude of distance and respect, tempered by disap- 
proval, to the very door of the palace. It was 
Frances herself who explained their relationship to 
their colleagues in the kitchen, Johann only gruffly 
assenting. She found her position harder than she 
expected in other ways, too. She managed it, and 
established herself without question; largely by 
first boxing the ear of an obnoxious flunkey in blue 
and silver livery, and then making a face at him. 
And before long she was in the pantry, with only 
work before her, handing plates to the hurrying 
men-servants, washing knives and forks, too busy 
to think. 

The broad doors opened into the great dining- 
room, and as they swung to and fro with the pas- 
sage of the servants Frances caught an occasional 
glimpse of the guests beyond. It was a man’s 
dinner, of thirty covers or more, and as time 
slipped on the talk became louder, the laughter 
more boisterous. But she was too deeply engaged 
in her work to hear what was said, or, indeed, even 
to see with the corner of her eye more than a long 
line of decorated shirt-fronts and uniforms, which 
contrasted brilliantly with the shadowy dark- 
panelled walls of the room. The faces could not 


228 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 


be recognized; a fact which, of course, did not 
disturb her in the least. But though she did not 
know it, two men were in that room whose pres- 
ence was closely bound up with Frances Ware’s 
destiny. 

One was Count Pehlen; the other was Fenn- 
Brook. And by the law that mistakes are bound 
to occur, they had been placed side by side. Their 
host had introduced them to each other and in the 
eyes of each, as they met, there had flashed a look 
of doubtful recognition, then of study, and finally, 
though in Fenn-Brook’s case this last appeared 
only after some time, of certainty. But they met 
and talked as strangers. 

The conversation was general, and before long 
turned, as it will in any gathering of Poles, upon 
politics. Had Frances been able to hear them, she 
would have learned that the radical views her hus- 
band held were not the views even of many of his 
fellow-countrymen. For in the heart of the aver- 
age Polish gentleman the hope of liberty has 
dwindled down to merely a longing for autonomy ; 
a Polish army, a constitution and parliament they 
can call their own. Prince Potocki voiced that 
sentiment to-night, from the head of the table, in 
the one toast of the evening. He struck his plate 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 229 

with his fork to attract attention and then, without 
rising, bowed to the white-haired Governor- 
General who sat next to him. 

“ Your Excellency,” he said, glass in hand, 
“ there is to my mind only one word to be said in 
regard to the future relations of Poland and Rus- 
sia. You are to dedicate next week a Russian 
Cathedral in the heart of Catholic Warsaw. We 
know that as a church it is unnecessary; that there 
never have been, and never will be, enough Ortho- 
dox people in this city to half fill it. We know 
what it is there for; that it has been built on 
land confiscated from the city, as a great monu- 
ment to our subjugation by Russia. We know 
that it has been paid for by the contributions of 
Russian officers, the very men who would lead 
their troops against us if we were to rebel. We 
do not glory in that monument. We cannot glory 
in it. Every Pole who loves his own country 
must frankly hate it. And at the same time I am 
thankful, and I believe my thinking countrymen 
are thankful, that it is there. In the end it stands 
for peace. The man who sees it must know that 
it has been put up by a hand more powerful than 
our own; that we are beaten; that, long and 
dream as we will, it is time to give up the strug- 


230 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

gle for the freedom we once had. We cannot 
promise loyalty to our master, the Czar. Our 
allegiance to him is too new, too compulsory, 
for that. We cannot promise even willing obedi- 
ence; for our people are as jealous of authority as 
they are unswerving in their devotion to their 
country. But I trust and hope that they will read 
the object lesson you have given them; and seek 
their ends, not by the force and turmoil which only 
cause you to tighten your grasp the more, but 
through channels of commercial and educational 
progress. I drink, your Excellency, to a new life 
for Poland, your dependency. May she win by 
peace what she can never wring from you by re- 
bellion and anarchy.” 

For a moment not a sound was heard. Then 
some one clapped his hands, and a burst of ap- 
plause, not over-enthusiastic but steady, followed. 
Frances heard it from the pantry, and had a fleet- 
ing glimpse of glasses raised toward the Russian 
Governor. But the door swung to again, and shut 
out the sequel. Long afterwards she learned what 
happened from Fenn-Brook’s lips. It seems that 
after the applause had died away and the men 
settled back in their chairs again, there was an 
awkward pause. Prince Potocki’s speech had been 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 231 

unexpected. Finally, some one broke the silence 
with a laugh and a chance remark. 

“ It is well for that programme that our old 
friend, Michael Zembec, is out of the way.” 

“Poor devil!” 

And then, from some one halfway down the 
table: “ By the way, if I didn’t know that Michael 
Zembec was in Siberia, I could swear to having 
met him in the street this afternoon.” 

To most of the guests the words seemed ordinary 
gossip; but the Governor bent quickly forward. 

“ You did? ” he demanded, eagerly. “ Where? 
How was he dressed?” 

Prince Potocki sprang to his feet with a protest. 
“ Your Excellency ! This is my house ; and you are 
my guest. I beg you to forget what has just been 
said, — said at my table. I know all that you know, 
though my countrymen here are ignorant of it. 
And — and I promise you that if that man really 
was Zembec, I will find him and force him to leave 
Warsaw. But ” 

“ Prince Potocki,” returned the Governor, with 
a grim touch, “ that proposal is hardly in accord 
with the sentiments you expressed a moment ago. 
Zembec is a fanatic and a murderer. If I can find 
him, my duty ” 


232 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

He was interrupted by a crash. The strain of 
those few words had been too much for poor old 
Johann. As he was pouring coffee into Fenn- 
Brook’ s cup and struggling to do it with steady 
hand, suddenly all went black. The coffee pot 
dropped to the table; and Johann, himself, instead 
of trying to catch it, straightened up, with his arms 
outstretched before him ; reeled against the consul’s 
chair; and fell his length upon the floor. 

Fenn-Brook and Pehlen were the first to reach 
him. He was lying on his side, his arms still ex- 
tended, his hands clenched, his limbs rigid; and a 
low, prolonged gurgle issued from between his 
blue lips. They raised him up and Pehlen tore 
open his collar. 

“ It’s apoplexy,” ventured some one in the 
crowd. 

“ Or an epileptic fit.” 

“ More likely heart,” muttered Fenn-Brook. 
“ At any rate he is going. Can some one bring a 
glass of water? ” 

After two or three minutes of work over him, 
however, the attack seemed to be passing. Its 
victim began to breathe more easily and the pur- 
plish flush in his face to fade away. Some one 
summoned a physician and, in the meantime, Fenn- 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 233 

Brook and Pehlen, assisted by one of the servants, 
lifted the unconscious form and carried it back to 
the servants’ hall. Frances, knowing only that 
some one had suddenly been taken ill, held the door 
open for them. When she saw who it was, one 
hand went to her bosom, but she made no outcry. 
She preceded them into the hall and they stretched 
him out upon a couch. Mechanically she knelt 
down beside him, seeing neither of the men who 
had borne him in. Mechanically she took the bot- 
tle of smelling-salts which a frightened maid had 
fetched, and held it to his nostrils; mechanically, 
as she rubbed his hands and forehead, she mut- 
tered to herself in English: “He must not die. 
He must not die. I must — must — bring him 
back.” 

And mechanically she heard the sharp intake of 
Fenn-Brook’s breath and his hushed “By gad!” 
as he saw her; but she understood neither. Pehlen, 
she neither saw nor heard. Otherwise she would 
have been even more frightened than she was; for 
as he and Fenn-Brook turned to leave the room, a 
devilishly self-satisfied smile was playing about the 
man’s mouth. But the Englishman noted it, with 
distrust and curiosity. On their way through the 
pantry, the Count stopped a servant who was com- 


234 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

ing in, and warned him to see that nothing of what 
had preceded the old man’s attack should be re- 
peated in the kitchen. This, too, seemed odd to 
Fenn-Brook. Why should Count Pehlen be anx- 
ious to have the mention of Zembec’s name for- 
gotten ? 

In the confusion preliminary to the guests’ be- 
coming seated again, he himself button-holed an 
attendant and, by judicious questioning, learned 
that the old man and Frances were not attached 
to the house but had come in for that evening. 
Later on, the attendant whispered to him that 
Johann had recovered consciousness and was sit- 
ting up. Fenn-Brook very shortly afterward ex- 
cused himself to Prince Potocki and left the house. 

Once outside, instead of going home, he walked 
round to the servants’ entrance and took up a posi- 
tion in the shadow. He staid there twenty min- 
utes in unbroken silence. Then a man issued from 
the house, walked off into the darkness, and soon 
reappeared with a cab, which waited while he went 
inside again. By and by the door once more 
opened and two figures came out, the bent old man, 
walking with difficulty, and Frances Ware with her 
arm about his waist. As she was helping him into 
the carriage, Fenn-Brook stepped from his hiding- 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 235 

place. His face, usually so boyish, was both stern 
and anxious. 

“ Don’t be frightened, Miss Ware. It is I, Mr. 
Fenn-Brook,” he said to her, cautiously. “ I saw 
you inside, you know. May I help?” 

Frances caught her breath. But she made no 
effort to deny her identity. 

“ Thank you, it is unnecessary, I think,” she 
answered, coldly. “ He is much better.” 

But Fenn-Brook quietly insisted. And after 
Johann had been put in place, he turned to her 
again. 

“You received my letter?” he asked, in an 
undertone. 

“ Yes.” 

“You are going?” 

“ No. You are mistaken. I am here with my 
husband.” 

“ Your ” Fenn-Brook stopped, in conster- 

nation. Then he hastily pulled himself together. 
“ I — I beg your pardon. I could not know, of 
course.” 

He stepped back, and the cab drove away. He 
watched its lights until they disappeared round a 
corner in the distance ; then he turned very thought- 
fully homeward. Her husband ! He let himself 


236 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

in at the Consulate, prepared himself a Scotch and 
soda and lighted a cigar, and sat down in his 
study, with his elbows on his knees and the glass in 
both hands. There was certainly food for medi- 
tation in what he had learned. It was actually 
Frances Ware he had seen from the window that 
afternoon, after all. She was here in Warsaw; 
married — that word choked him, somehow; going 
out to wash dishes for Prince Potocki. The com- 
bination remained too much for him, though his 
glass was empty and his cigar burned away long 
before he gave it up. 

“ After all,” he muttered to himself, u what 
difference does it make? If she has thrown her- 
self away she has done it with open eyes. She is 
too level-headed to have done otherwise. But — 
she was so damned plucky that night at Sceaux! ” 
He stopped suddenly and brought his fist down on 
the arm of his chair. “ By Jove ! there’s one man 
who does know, and that is Count Pehlen. I saw 
it in his eye, there in the kitchen. I’ll have it out 
of him before morning or go back to some beastly 
hole in the Balkans.” 

And meanwhile, at Prince Potocki’s, the cham- 
pagne and cognac were flowing merrily, as they 
will when Slavs dine together. With the loosen- 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 237 

ing of the reins of formality, there had been a 
general pushing back of chairs and shifting of 
places. Eventually Count Pehlen found himself 
next the Governor-General. He had been incon- 
spicuously abstemious ever since Zembec’s name 
was mentioned. And somewhere about the time 
that Fenn-Brook hit upon a way to solve his mys- 
tery, he leaned toward the Russian official and 
spoke in an undertone. The Governor heard him 
through in thoughtful silence and at the end knit 
his brow. But finally he gave his assent to what- 
ever it was the other had proposed. 

Shortly afterwards the gathering broke up. 


CHAPTER XXI 


A CTING on the spur of his sudden resolution 
r-\ to find Pehlen and have it out with him at 
once, Fenn-Brook hastily retraced his steps 
to the scene of the early evening’s adventure. The 
lateness of the hour did not seriously disturb him ; 
nor did the fact that Prince Potocki’s palace, when 
he reached it, was practically wrapped in darkness. 

The man-servant who came to the door in sloppy 
dishabille that contrasted strongly with the splen- 
dor in which he had been clothed an hour or two 
before, had no information to impart excepting that 
the diners had dispersed some time ago and his 
master was in bed. But the true Polish spark is not 
one to let his pleasure die a sudden death. Fenn- 
Brook, fully aware of this, turned away and hope- 
fully began a systematic search of the fashionable 
cafes. 

As a matter of fact, the hour at which our own 
more prosaic, Anglo-Saxon cities go to bed is really 
the hour at which fashionable Warsaw begins to 
wake up. Had Fenn-Brook wandered into the Cafe 

238 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 239 

Bristol or the Hotel de l’Europe at nine o’clock he 
would have found only rows of empty tables and 
idle, yawning waiters. But by eleven-thirty they 
have taken on a different aspect. Homes disgorge ; 
the cafes swallow. The broad Faubourg of Cra- 
cow and the Senatorskaja are alive with carriages 
literally charging upon the center of the city. It 
is not all respectable, of course. Of a truth, the 
women who blossom forth are more likely painted 
than unpainted. But there are plenty of both; 
and monde and demi-monde are welded easily and 
joyfully together in common pursuit of the pleas- 
ures to be extracted from the night’s small hours. 

Fenn-Brook met many that he knew, both of 
men and women; and, what with the number of 
times he was held up, his progress was slow. It 
was also unsuccessful, for he went the rounds 
of the cafes without finding the man of whom he 
was in search. There remained only the music 
halls. With a grimace of repugnance he climbed 
into a cab and bade its driver carry him to “ The 
Fantasy.” 

There is perhaps no better indication of the 
lightness that pervades Warsaw than can be seen in 
the way its vaudeville theaters are run. The per- 
formances begin at eleven o’clock at night and keep 


240 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

going until four in the morning. You pay no ad- 
mission. But you are supposed to sit down at a 
table in pit or box and buy generous quantities of 
wine; and the actresses, stars, chorus girls, and all, 
are under contract to come out from behind the 
scenes when they have finished their numbers, to 
drink wine with you if you will, to be looked at if 
you won’t ; but to stay there and keep you amused 
until closing time. And withal, strict decorum is 
maintained, and a thick veneer of the proprieties. 
No loud laughter; no rudeness on the part of the 
guests; no obnoxious importunity to buy on the part 
of the women ! But get merrily and happily over 
the obstacle of darkness ! This is the standard of 
the better places. From them, downward, War- 
saw is honeycombed with institutions of the 
sort. 

“ The Fantasy ” is the best of the lot, be it in the 
quality of tinsel, the beauty and dresses of the 
actresses, the high price of food and vintages, or 
the rigidity with which polite manners are insisted 
upon. And there, seated in a box with four or five 
others from among the Potocki guests, Fenn-Brook 
finally ran Count Pehlen to earth. They made 
place for him at once in the seat which, so one of 
the men told him, they had been reserving for 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 241 

the prettiest woman in the hall. Pehlen was on 
the other side of the table, next the rail, and too 
far away to be talked to privately. So Fenn- 
Brook was forced to wait patiently in his uncon- 
genial surroundings until the opportunity should 
come. All the men had been drinking more or less 
heavily. One or two of them, in fact, would have 
required little urging to turn their high spirits into 
boisterousness. But upon Pehlen the wine was 
obviously having the opposite effect. The more he 
drank, the deeper grew the sneering lines that 
habitually marked his thin, sallow face. At the 
end of two hours he had become ugly and quarrel- 
some. But Fenn-Brook, tired from waiting, dis- 
gusted with his surroundings, was himself in no 
amiable mood; and when Pehlen at last rose to 
stretch his legs and disappeared in the rear of the 
hall, he slipped from his seat and went after him 
with savage directness. He found the Pole pacing 
back and forth in the vestibule, and wasted no time 
in preliminaries before getting down to the pith 
of his subject. 

“ I have been waiting for this chance. I wish 
to talk with you of Miss Ware,” he began, at 
once. 

“ Do you? Who is she? ” 


242 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

“ You do not need to be told,” returned Fenn- 
Brook, confidently. “ She is the woman we saw at 
Potocki’s to-night.” 

Pehlen impatiently shrugged his shoulders. “ It 
doesn’t interest me. I am not attracted by servant 
girls, myself. If you will please excuse ” 

But Fenn-Brook placed himself squarely in the 
path of the other’s retreat. “ I will not,” he said, 
firmly. “ Who is her husband? ” 

Again a shrug; but no other answer. 

“ I’m waiting.”' 

Pehlen wheeled upon him. “ I’ll tell you this 
much, damn you,” he exclaimed, viciously. “ My 
advice to the British Consul in Warsaw is to let 
Miss Frances Ware alone — unless your own au- 
thorities are looking for her?” 

“ I am quite cognizant of my neutrality obliga- 
tions, thank you,” as hotly returned the English- 
man. “ I suppose, at least, that is what your in- 
sinuation means. You have — See here, man! ” he 
broke out, with an impetuous gesture, “ I have 
come to you as one gentleman to another, in an 
effort to save that girl from some folly. Why 
should you refuse to assist her. Why ?” 

“What is your interest in her?” inquired Peh- 
len, carelessly. 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 243 

“ Merely that of any loyal friend.” 

“ Rather officious, are you not?” 

“ Perhaps,” admitted Fenn-Brook. “ It seems 
to me a case where officiousness is needed.” 

Pehlen laughed. “ Say, rather, force.” Sud- 
denly his manner changed back to one of fierceness. 
“You think you can help her, do you? Try it. 
She came here to be helped, of course. You fool! 
She came here from Paris with her husband, plan- 
ning to — No, I don’t think I’ll tell you that. But 
try to help her; her and her husband. Her mar- 
ried name is Zembec.” 

“ Stop that nonsense,” demanded Fenn-Brook. 
“ I want the truth.” 

“ Oh, it’s true enough,” pursued Pehlen relent- 
lessly. “ The Countess Michael Zembec. Now 
try to help her. You heard what was said at the 
table to-night. Can you get her out of Warsaw 
after that, do you think? Try it. They are here, 
I tell you, and here they stay, in the fancied 
security of a false name, until I am ready to draw 
the net. Perhaps to-morrow, perhaps the next 
day. I am in no hurry, for there are others with 
them and I want the whole band. — But one word 
of warning from you, and your little friend goes 
to the Citadel the hour after. If you were waiting 


a 4 4 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

for this talk, you can go home to bed now; and 
dream of what will happen.” 

He turned on his heel and walked back to his 
companions, leaving the beaten Englishman to 
gaze after him in helpless consternation. 

Indeed Fenn-Brook had cause for dismay. 
The events of that night had marked a great 
upheaval in his feelings for Frances Ware. In 
ninety-nine cases out of the hundred, probably, the 
man who falls in love with a woman does it in- 
tentionally, so to speak. The trouble begins with 
the premise, acknowledged or unacknowledged, 
that he may as well marry. He meets an attractive 
girl, debates within himself the question of her 
compatibility, investigates further and, presto! by 
the magic wand of mind-pictures love is conjured 
up and realized. It is an automatic process and, 
if allowed to run, practically infallible. Else to 
hit upon one’s affinity in this worldful of human 
beings would be a rare chance indeed. But Fenn- 
Brook’s was the hundredth case. His love for 
Frances Ware burst suddenly upon him, that night. 
He did not recognize it for what it was until long 
afterwards. But in the realization of the nature of 
the girl’s supposed errand there in Warsaw; in the 
knowledge of the actual and perhaps immediate 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 245 

danger that menaced her, it brought him near to a 
condition of panic. He saw no light anywhere. 
Pehlen’s parting shot had well-nigh cut him off 
from the hope that he might intervene. To heed 
the man’s threat, nevertheless, wa,s of little more 
advantage than to disregard it — the gain only of a 
day or so. And to block Pehlen altogether, even 
if he could find a means of doing so, was not much 
better; for she would then go her way to the dis- 
astrous end. To Fenn-Brook’s mind, Scylla and 
Charybdis seemed to have had many offspring 
since the ancient days. 

He had moved back toward the door leading 
into the hall, and was standing there gazing de- 
spondently over the heads of the audience at the 
four or five dancers on the stage, when a soft, 
gloved hand was lightly slipped beneath his arm. 

“ We are hungry, you and I; nicht wahr?” 

The laughing eyes of a rather heavily-featured, 
blond-haired German girl peered round into his 
face. Fenn-Brook, disturbed in his troubled medi- 
tations, released himself almost rudely from her 
grasp ; then, under the impulse of a sudden inspira- 
tion, motioned to a corner of the room. 

“ Komm,” he muttered. “ This way.” 

He led her to a table well sheltered from the 


246 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

observation of the men he had just left, and 
beckoned to a waiter. 

“What would you like?” 

She nonchalantly shrugged her shoulders. 
“Anything; what you will. And a little cham- 
pagne, yes? ” 

“ And a little champagne,” echoed Fenn-Brook, 
gravely. 

As they sat sipping their wine and carrying on a 
very desultory conversation, a puzzled expression, 
not quite free from anxiety, crept into her eyes. 
Finally she leaned forward and tapped his arm 
with her forefinger. 

“I have seen you before, somewhere; not 
so?” 

“ Yes,” answered Fenn-Brook, pleasantly. 
“ Out in the park, when you were kicked by that 
horse, you know. You were extraordinarily lucky 
to get off so easily; were you not? And I, to be 
there.” His manner underwent an abrupt change. 
“ How much,” he asked in a low voice, “ will you 
take for one of those sheets of paper? ” 

She drew back. “ What do you mean? ” 

Fenn-Brook fingered his glass some seconds be- 
fore explaining. “ You see, Marie,” he finally 
answered, “ I had known you, by sight at least, 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 247 

before our meeting yesterday. Shall we drink a 
health to, say, Prince Ferdinand of Bulgaria? ” 

But Marie did not care to. Her fingers tight- 
ened rigidly about the stem of her glass, and she 
gasped. 

“ Gently ! ” admonished her companion. “ You 
might attract attention, you know.” 

“You are — Ach! I know now. You are the 
Herr Fenn-Brook, the English Consul! ” 

He nodded quietly. “ Yes. How much will 
you take for Count Pehlen’s papers?” 

He had to wait for a reply. The girl studied 
him earnestly for some time; trying evidently to 
learn from his expression the best course to adopt; 
whether to deny everything or make out of the 
situation what she could. In the end, after a 
ha, sty glance at their nearest neighbors, she bent 
forward. 

“ It is that you want them for your own govern- 
ment? ” 

“ My own government! ” laughed Fenn-Brook. 
“ No. I want them for myself.” 

She fell back in disappointment at his apparent 
trifling. 

“ Ach, Gott ! you would not give enough.” 

“ It is purely a question of the amount, then? ” 


248 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

The gloved hands went out. “ What will you? 
One must live.” 

“ Quite so,” commented Fenn-Brook, approv- 
ingly. “One must; and if possible, retain one’s 
freedom. When do you go back to Austria?” 

“ In three days — or four, perhaps, or a week. 
I have not yet all.” 

“ And you are anxious to go? ” 

“But yes. Why not?” 

“ Good. Now, listen to me, Marie,” he said, 
speaking slowly to emphasize his words. “ I want 
the loan — the loan, mind you — of those papers for 
a week. I want them. Otherwise — do you under- 
stand? I’ll give them back at the end of that 
time, with two hundred pounds, in banknotes, 
in the envelope. And it shall all be held a 
secret.” 

“ But I do not understand,” she gasped, be- 
wildered. 

“ What my object may be? My dear girl,” he 
said, good-humoredly, “ it is unnecessary that you 
should; quite beside the mark, in fact. The ques- 
tion is, will you accept my offer; or must I ” 

The alternative was left to her imagination. 

“ It would surely be a secret between you and 
me?” 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 249 

“No; not exactly. Between you and me and 
Count Pehlen.” 

She gave a frightened shudder. “ I cannot. 
He would kill me.” 

“And leave the papers in my possession? 
Hardly.” 

He looked at his watch. It was already nearly 
three o’clock. 

“ I am going home, Marie,” said he, “ in ex- 
actly four minutes.” 

Three of them Marie Traube sat out in silence. 
Then, at last, she hurriedly rose from her chair. 

“ Wait,” she whispered. 

“You have them here?” 

The girl put a hand upon her bosom. “ Yes. 
Here. I will go and take them out.” 

When daylight broke through the windows of 
the British Consulate, it saw Fenn-Brook seated 
before his desk, haggard and worn. Before him 
lay a large, blue consular envelope, bearing the 
inscription, “ The Property of Marie Traube,” 
and heavy with the consular seal. He thoughtfully 
fingered another letter, which he then slowly put 
with the mail to go out that morning. 

“ I’ve sullied my hands quite enough, for one 
night,” he mused, as he rose stiffly from his chair. 


2 5 o PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

“ I’ve bribed and browbeaten a woman, black- 
mailed a man, and perhaps become an accessory- 
before the fact to an assassination or bomb out- 
rage. And all for an escaped Siberian convict, and 
a married woman who refuses my help ! But 
when Pehlen gets that letter he will know he can’t 
move for a week, by gad, anyhow; and in the 

meantime ” He shrugged his shoulders, 

wearily, and walked to the safe with the big blue 
envelope. “ I’d give something,” he muttered, 
as the iron door clicked on it, “ to know what those 
papers are for which Austria is paying him. From 
his position, I should say they were State secrets.” 


CHAPTER XXII 


T HE morning after Prince Potocki’s dinner 
found Johann too weak to leave his bed, 
and less weak than restless. Frances had, 
of course, explained to Michael all she knew of his 
attack; but it was only at a late hour that Zembec 
learned the cause. Frances had been up half the 
night with her patient, and much of the rest of it 
she had passed in sleeplessness. The shock of his 
sudden sickness, the fear that he would die and that, 
in the ensuing investigations, the police would come 
to their rooms and find Michael had completely de- 
stroyed her equilibrium. As the morning wore on, 
however, the inevitable reaction set in; and she 
threw herself, fully dressed, upon her bed to rest 
It was only after she had fallen sound asleep that 
Johann called his master into the room and told 
him what had happened. 

“ I could not hear the outcome, of course,” he 
concluded, “ but they know you are here. And 
the Governor intends to find you. You should go 
251 » 


252 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

to-day if you can, with Madame — unless it is al- 
ready too late. Will you not — for your father’s 
— my old master’s — sake? ” he pleaded, anxiously. 

Zembec rose and thoughtfully paced the room. 

“ Were you yourself questioned as to where you 
lived?” he asked, shortly. 

“No. But Madame ” 

“ Madame told me of the stranger who spoke to 
her as she was placing you in the cab. That is in- 
significant. He was harmless. But she says that in 
the servants’ hall no one approached her; except 
that some one from the house volunteered to help 
get you home. But, of course, the police could 
easily obtain your address if they wished, from 
Potocki’s major domo. If ” — he pulled out his 
watch — “ if they intended to arrest me,” he said, 
coolly, “ they would have been here before this. 
It’s already after eleven.” 

Johann started up eagerly. 

“No, no! You must not!” he cried. “You 
must try to go. I beg it. Think, my master, think 
of what your arrest would mean to Madame.” 

Zembec’s face clouded. 

“ It would be for her sake if at all,” he mut- 
tered. “ Poor little woman ! But if they want 
me at all it’s too late now — after they have had 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 253 

twelve hours’ warning.” And then, aloud: 
“ Johann, I must chance it. I cannot get away if 
they are on the lookout. If they are not, there is 
no need of going. But to-day will tell. They 
won’t keep me in suspense more than a few hours.” 
He drew a pistol from his pocket and examined its 
load; and the old, savage look crept into his eyes. 
“ Just an hour or two, Johann, and then — They 
won’t send me to Siberia this time. If I’m taken, 
it will be to stand with my back against that wall 
over in the Citadel. But some one else shall die 
before I do.” 

He passed into the outer room and, revolver in 
hand, took up his watch for the coming of the 
police. But no sound reached him except, on the 
one side, the worried mumblings of his servant and, 
on the other, the deep breathing of Frances, in 
peaceful, ignorant sleep. For two hours he re- 
mained on guard, with his face set, his eyes black 
and gleaming. And then, with the suddenness 
characteristic of the man, he emerged from his 
savagery. 

“ I’m a fool,” he laughed to himself. “ This 
is not the way they do business. It would have 
Ipeen early — before daybreak — if at all.” He tip- 
toed into his wife’s room and, bending over her, 


a 5 4 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

lovingly kissed her parted lips. Then he took his 
hat and confidently left the house. 

He was gone all day, as usual. When he re- 
turned, well after dusk, he found both Frances and 
Johann up and about. Frances had undertaken to 
do the old man’s work for him and was in the little 
kitchen off the common room, busying herself with 
the preparations for their simple supper. She 
greeted him with a call of welcome, the ring of 
which told of her restored equanimity. Michael 
answered in kind, and then, in an undertone, told 
Johann that he had seen no signs of danger; he 
had not even been followed. Lowering his voice 
still more, he added: 

“ We have another, to-night; the last but one, 
and it will probably be a long session. I must look 
after the powders myself, I suppose. Where are 
they? ” 

Johann hesitated. “ Is it necessary?” he whis- 
pered, finally, with a note of protest in his voice. 
“ She will ” 

“ I cannot risk it,” returned Michael; promptly. 
“Where are they?” 

“ In my bedroom, on the shelf. But only one.” 

Zembec nodded and went into Johann’s room. 

Supper was not a formal affair in the old man’s 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 255 

quarters. To avoid all suspicion, they had let 
no change at all be made in the quality of the food 
he purchased. And, though Michael and Frances 
ate alone, a stranger entering the room would have 
noted nothing; for they made it a rule to lay a 
third place, and Johann waited on them with one 
eye on the door, ready to drop into his seat on the 
instant. To-night, as Frances set the bare table, 
Johann left his chair and hobbled into his own 
room. The strong instinct of the servitor made it 
impossible for him to remain seated there in the 
room while his masters were at their meal, and he 
was still too weak to stand so long. Frances tried 
to call him back, but he would not come. And so, 
after seeing that he was comfortably fixed, she 
pulled the table out into the middle of the room, 
the better to enjoy this unexpected teta-a-tete meal 
with her husband. It was the first they had had 
since leaving Paris. 

It is sometimes a small circumstance indeed that 
upsets a man’s plans. To-night it was only the 
moving of that table. In doing it Frances disar- 
ranged things slightly, and as she set them right 
again, the two glasses of Polish mead which Zem- 
bec had poured out accidentally changed places. 
Michael was in his best mood, and showed in their 


2S 6 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

full light the qualities which made him lovable. 
But as he rattled on with his small talk and his 
enthusiasms, after Frances had put away the 
dishes, and they had settled down for the even- 
ing, she noticed a hesitancy creep into his speech, 
as if he were not quite sure of himself. It began 
about an hour after supper. Once or twice his 
tongue wandered wide from the mark. He rose 
and restlessly paced the room; and even while 
he was walking back and forth his head suddenly 
dropped forward. He caught himself with an 
effort, and a troubled expression stole into his face. 

“ I — I km sleepy, Frances.” 

And then, as his wife carelessly smiled, the sig- 
nificance of his feelings struck him. 

“ Frances ! ” He fairly shrieked her name. 
“Frances! Aren’t — aren’t you sleepy?” 

She sprang to his side. Zembec seized her arm 
and shook her feebly. “ Answer ! ” he pleaded. 
“Aren’t— my God!” 

His hand went out as if groping in the darkness. 
Frances, very pale, and with lips tight shut, held 
his swaying form for a moment, then guided it 
gently into a chair. Zembec was unconscious. 

For a moment Frances was nearly beside her- 
self; overwhelmed by a fear a thousandfold greater 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 257 

than that which she had felt the night before on 
seeing the men bringing Johann out from Prince 
Potocki’s banquet hall. But suddenly, as she knelt 
desperately beside him, striving to bring him to, 
her limbs stiffened, and a shudder ran through 
them as when a rod of steel is struck a blow. For 
those frantic words had flooded her memory : 

“ Frances ! Aren’t you sleepy? ” 

She felt his brow. It was cool. She tore open 
his shirt and put her hand upon his heart. The 
pulsations were slow and feeble, but they were 
regular. She listened to his breathing. It was 
long and deep; merely the breathing of a man 
asleep. Slowly Frances rose to her feet, hardly 
able to lift the burden that had fallen upon her 
soul, and stood before her husband’s helpless form. 

“ What was it for? ” she muttered, numbly and 
mechanically. “ Why — why should he have 
wanted to do that? Why ” 

And then she realized it was not the first time. 
Twice before, no, three times, since their coming 
to Warsaw, she had felt that heavy drowsiness 
steal over her even before the evening was well on, 
and had gone to bed almost too sleepy to undress. 
And of a morning he had asked whether her head 
was aching. No, it was not the first time; and the 


258 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

other attempts had succeeded. But why? Why 
had it been necessary for him to drug her — his 
wife ? That she might not know — might not see — 
what? She thought of Fenn-Brook’s warning, of 
his importunity the night before, of her proud an- 
swer that there was no need to go away, because 
she was in Warsaw with her husband. And 
now 

The memory of that warning gave Frances a 
grip upon herself. Scorned though it had been 
before, she knew at last that Fenn-Brook was right; 
that she must get Michael out of the city. And 
with tangible work ahead, her self-control re- 
turned. She walked quietly to Johann’s door and 
peeped in. He had fallen asleep, leaving the bread 
and milk she had placed by his bedside untouched. 
Frances silently entered and blew out his half- 
burned candle and, coming out, gently closed the 
door. No one, not even old Johann, should know 
what had happened. Then, secure from surprise, 
she undertook to put Michael into his bed. But 
the dead weight of his huge frame was too much 
for her strength. She managed to get his body 
into an upright position, only to have it slip back 
again. She nearly fell, herself, in the effort. 
Finally, she gave it up. She thrust a pillow 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 259 

behind his head, loosened his collar, unlaced his 
shoes, brought another chair to serve as a foot- 
rest for him, and threw a shawl over his legs. 
Then, utterly worn out, but with resolute will, she 
sat down near him to formulate her plans; striving 
to see the outcome of the test his love must be sub- 
mitted to on the morrow. As she sat there the 
cheap wooden clock on the corner shelf harshly 
struck the hour of nine. Frances dully remem- 
bered that on the other occasions she had gone to 
bed at eight. 

It might have been some thirty minutes later, 
while deep in her thoughts, that she suddenly heard 
four taps on the door — one, then two, then one. 
She sprang to her feet, in front of her husband’s 
chair, with one cold hand thrust back as if to shield 
him, and waited. They came again, like a signal. 
Frances neither answered nor moved. Again; and 
than, in a voice, muffled in itself, more deadened by 
the panels: 

14 Michael.” 

She held her ground; suppressing her breathing 
for fear its sound would be heard. After another 
pause the knob slowly turned before her eyes, and 
the door opened part way. A man’s head ap- 
peared, and was as quickly withdrawn. Frances 


26 o PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

listened to hear his retreating footsteps; but there 
were none. 

She could bear it no longer and, springing for- 
ward, threw the door wide open. In the burst of 
light which fell upon the opposite wall of the hall- 
way, stood Count Pehlen. 

“ You ! ” she gasped. 

Pehlen was a quick-witted man. He grasped 
the situation, or a part of it, at once; and the pause 
that preceded his answer was barely perceptible. 

“ Yes. I had an appointment with your hus- 
band. Is he ill?” And as he spoke he stepped 
lightly past her into the room. “ I thought — Oh ! 
that’s it, is it? So your husband has been drink- 
ing too heavily.” 

Frances faced him fiercely. 

“ No, my husband has not been drinking. Will 
you please leave this room? ” 

Instead, he stepped to Michael’s side and placed 
a hand upon his brow. 

“ No, it is not drinking, after all. Michael 
rarely did that.” He turned quickly toward her 
with a queer smile. “ You have taken this method 
of preventing his — his keeping his appoint- 
ments ? ” 

“ Will you leave this room? ” 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 261 

He laughed. “ You need not fear he will wake 
up and find us. And I have ” 

“ I tell you to go. Or else ” — her eyes were 
blazing, but her voice was steady — “ that letter 
you gave me shall be shown to the Russian police 
to-morrow morning ? ” 

“Oh! I had forgotten that! And Michael ?” 
he asked, raising his brows with an amused ex- 
pression. 

“ Michael will not be here,” she returned, 
boldly. 

Pehlen ensconced himself comfortably in a chair. 
“ That is an interesting point, Madame; one which 
will bear discussion. To my mind your husband 
can no more leave Warsaw to-morrow than he can 
fly. It is not in his nature. You see,” he went on, 
easily, “he is engaged in some — some work — here 
which gives him an excitement he craves. He 
would neglect even an alluring wife for it. I told 
you, long ago, you remember, that Michael be- 
longed to Poland.” 

“ I do not believe you.” 

“ No ? Then you are less observant than beauti- 
ful, Madame. I will prove it to you — for your 
own sake. But first, do you recall a certain night 
and a certain old house near Sceaux? ” He smiled 


262 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 


at the sudden clenching of her hands. u Ah, I see 
you do. You were there with an Englishman, 
named Fenn-Brook — for what purpose I neither 
care nor ask, though it was an unconventional hour. 
I identified you by the fact that a pin you must 
have picked up there afterwards lay on your own 
table. And I recognized your companion when I 
saw him again last night at Count Potocki’s dinner. 
But that is beside the mark. That night you dis- 
turbed a meeting of some Polish patriots; and 
the pin was their emblem. Would you mind look- 
ing just inside the collar of Michael’s waistcoat? ” 

Frances did not answer. 

“ No? ” he went on; and stepping quietly to the 
drugged man’s side, turned back his coat. “ Do 
you recognize it?” 

Her hand flew to her bosom and pressed against 
the little bag of jewelry she carried there, hung 
about her neck. The hope that prompted the 
gesture was killed in its inception. Her own cross 
was there. She could feel its sharp edges indenting 
her flesh. The man was not lying. Michael had 
perhaps even been in that deserted house with the 
others. Frances felt the ground giving beneath 
her feet. But harassed and frightened as she was, 
her will-power kept her up, and she resolutely 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 263 

refused to let this man see the pain and humiliation 
he was causing. She gave neither sign nor word 
of mouth that she understood. But Pehlen, with 
hardly a pause, smilingly resumed his seat and con- 
tinued in the same vein. 

“ You see, he is involved in the thing head and 
heart — though he has probably given you some 
other reason for his presence here in Warsaw. 
There is a meeting to-night. That is why I am 
here. He was late and I came to fetch him. 
But now, — Ah, well, I am glad it happened. I 
have wanted to talk to you, and have had in mind 
to seek you out ever since you arrived. I have 
much to say. Your future troubles me, and I owe 
you apologies for having brought you into danger. 
Do you know who introduced Michael to the So- 
ciety? It was I. I knew he could not resist the 
temptation, even for the sake of such a woman as 
yourself. Though I could not dream that you 
would come here with him. 1 ’ 

He rose to his feet and approached her. “ I hate 
Michael Zembec,” he exclaimed, in a fierce outburst 
of passion. “ I hate him. Three years ago I could 
have married his cousin, Maria Sobanska, but he 
interfered and gave her to my brother. I have 
waited long to even matters. Two years ago I 


264 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

sent him to Siberia, but he escaped. And then he 
married you. I hate him for that, too! I have 
persuaded him to come on here again, and here he 
shall stay until I am ready to spring the trap again. 
It will be a deadfall this time. And as for that 
letter,” he laughed, with a snap of his fingers, 
“ that for it. It was not written to me; it was to 
my brother, who was arrested at the same time as 
your husband. The police know of it already. 
I was worried for the moment, of course, when 
you kept it, for it was to serve the purpose of con- 
vincing some of Michael’s compatriots that he 
trusted me.” 

He paused a moment, and then said, slowly, let- 
ting the words sink in, “ I required that they trust 
me, you see, because — I am connected with the 
Russian Police.” 

Frances swayed as she heard him. It was no 
longer the question as to whether her husband had 
been telling her untruths, but of his very life; and 
the danger lay in the one direction whence she had 
not expected it. She could no longer conceal her 
dismay from her visitor ; and though she still clung 
to the line of defense she had adopted, it was now 
defense pure and simple. Her weapons of attack 
were gone. Pehlen, seeing the effect, waited. But 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 265 

if he hoped for an appeal, he was disappointed. 
Her eyes met his unflinchingly, though their look 
was heavy. 

“ There is one way out,” he resumed, finally, in 
an easier tone. “ What I would not do for 
Michael Zembec, himself, I might do gladly for — 
his wife — if she should ask me.” 

A ray of hope entered Frances’s heart, and she 
opened her lips; but the subtle smile that followed 
his words sealed them again. 

“She will not?” he went on, lightly. “How 
else can Michael escape? I know when he comes 
and when he goes. And I have only to say the 
word to a gendarme and — but you won’t make 
chat step necessary; will you? ” He stepped close 
to her side, smiling. “ Come, you are a clever 
woman — Frances — and a woman of the world. 
Why not?” Before Frances could realize his in- 
tention his arms were about her waist, and his 
lips had touched her own. 

Her hands were against his breast. With a des- 
perate effort she straightened her arms enough to 
free herself; and then, turning, she walked to the 
rear door, very pale, with a burning red mark over 
each cheek. 

“ Johann,” she called, in a low voice. 


266 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 


Pehlen heard the sleepy “ Madame ” with 
which the summons was answered, and laughed. 

“ There is no need, now, my dear. We have 
had enough for to-night, perhaps.” He picked up 
his hat from the table, and stopped near Zembec. 
“ Poor Michael,” he laughed, and lightly slapped 
the unconscious man’s cheek. “ Has your wife 
been kissed by another? ” 

The insolent, self-confident smile which made 
Frances’s blood run cold remained upon his face 
until he was outside the door. But in the darkness 
of the hall his ill-temper quickly reasserted itself. 

“ We shall see whether it has all been for one 
paltry kiss,” he muttered viciously, as he felt his 
way toward the stairs. “ Damn that interfering 
Englishman! ” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


F RANCES remained long awake that night; 
lying motionless upon her back, with her 
hands behind her head, staring at the ceil- 
ing. The hawkers’ carts were beginning to rum- 
ble on the roughly-paved street below her window 
long before she closed her eyes. When she opened 
them again it was broad daylight. Some of the 
things Michael had been wearing were lying about 
the room; and with a dull throb of pain at the 
memory of the night she realized that he had at 
last emerged from his stupor and was already up. 
She called to him. But it was Johann who came to 
her door in answer. 

“ Madame.” 

“ Is — is my husband there?” 

“ No, Madame. He went out some time ago.” 
She rose and dressed mechanically, conscious 
only of a feeling of relief that an unexpected res- 
pite had been granted her. In the sitting room she 
found Johann, very grave and apologetic. She saw 
he was aware of what had happened; though after 
267 


268 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 


Pehlen was once out of the room, she had sent him 
back to bed without giving him sight of Michael. 
Once or twice the old man opened his mouth as if 
to speak of it, but something in her manner de- 
prived him of courage. By and by he disappeared 
into his own room, leaving her to sit there before 
her untasted food, with one elbow upon the table, 
her chin in her hand, her eyes unseeing. 

It was already ten, and Michael had been gone 
an hour. As the minutes ticked away her fortitude 
returned ; then, unable to stand against the continued 
suspense, it ebbed again. Michael was no coward, 
afraid to meet her, his wife. Count Pehlen’s blow 
must already have fallen. Then there forced it- 
self slowly into her mind the memory of what she 
had told Fenn-Brook that night in Sceaux. “ I 
may give you the chance to repay me sometime — 
in Warsaw.” And Fenn-Brook knew of what had 
been going on. Else why his letter? She smiled 
bitterly at the remembrance of her first interpreta- 
tion of it, her thought that Fenn-Brook believed 
she was in some plot herself. 

The conviction that Michael was already under 
arrest grew firmer and firmer, until it became al- 
most certainty. And finally, in desperation, she 
put her pride in her pocket and went to the only 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 269 

man in Russia to whom she dared appeal for 
help. 

Fenn-Brook received her in his private office. 
His manner was courteous but, though his heart 
was wrenched in the effort to make it so, more than 
ordinarily formal. For the Englishman, after 
much thought, had decided upon his course. 

Frances lost no time in the choice of opening 
words. “ I have come to talk with you about my 
husband,” she said, quietly, as soon as she was 
seated. 

Fenn-Brook gravely bowed. “ I know. I have 
heard about it from Count Pehlen.” 

“ From Count Pehlen! ” Her fingers tightened 
on the edge of the table. “ Has my husband been 
arrested?” 

“ Not that I am aware of. He hardly will be> 
as yet, I think,” he answered, with a glance toward 
the Consulate safe. He shifted his position and 
faced her squarely. “ Miss Wa — I beg your par- 
don — Countess — perhaps I should make my posi- 
tion clear to you before we go on. I do not know 
what you desire; but if you have any personal 
trouble I shall of course, as a man, be glad to help 
you so far as I can. But you must understand that 
as His Majesty’s representative here, I cannot very 


270 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

well offer any assistance to conspirators against the 
Power to which I am accredited.” 

Frances rose quietly to her feet. 

“ That is sufficient, I think,” she said, slowly. 
“ I did come to ask your help; but ” 

“ You refused, did you not, to take the only 
advice I could offer? ” 

“ I did not know then what my husband was 
here for,” she returned. “ Do you imagine I 
should have refused, otherwise? ” 

She turned to the door, eager only to leave be- 
fore he could see her disappointment. But as her 
hand grasped the knob, the Consul’s restraining 
touch fell sharply upon her arm. 

“ Wait! ” he commanded. His voice rang with 
a new note. “ Say those words again. Say them 
slowly, so that I can understand. No; don’t. 
There must be no further mistake. Answer me 
this, by yes or no. Are you, or are you not, in- 
volved in this plot yourself?” 

She wheeled slowly about, with uplifted eyes. 

“ I certainly am not, Mr. Fenn-Brook.” 

Fenn-Brook drew his hand across his forehead. 

“ Thank God ! ” he muttered, fervently. 
“ Then that pin — it didn’t belong to you, after 
all? And all that old shying at the name of War- 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 271 

saw? What did that mean? And — and those 
clothes! Why are you dressed as you are?” 

Frances, in spite of her troubles, found herself 
almost smiling at his happy expression of relief 
and perplexity. But as she answered, her face 
again grew grave. 

“ I came to Warsaw — or thought I came — to 
help my husband reclaim some property he had 
here. It was, of course, necessary for us to dis- 
guise ourselves.” 

“ I say, I ” He held out his open hand — 

“ I beg your pardon. I’m awfully sorry; really, 
I am, you know. What a liar the man is! ” he 
burst out, forcibly. 

“ Don’t say that of him,” she returned in quick 
defense. “ He was driven. He could not help 
coming; and he wished to spare me pain.” 

Fenn-Brook looked at her, blankly, for a mo- 
ment, then smiled. “ I was saying it, not of your 

husband, but of Count Pehlen. He ” 

“ Oh!” 

“ He told me you and your husband were both 
mixed up in the thing. After our meeting the 
other night, you see, and your telling me you 
were married, I went to him to get the details. I 
had to find some way out; and I saw at Prince 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 


272 

Potocki’s dinner that he knew you.” In answer 
to Frances’s start he added, “ It was Count Pehlen 
and myself who carried that old servant back into 
the kitchen. We both recognized you; but you 
had eyes only for the sick man. I wanted to be in 
a position to help you if I could and — from what I 
already knew I was sure you would soon need 
help.” 

“You saw Count Pehlen this morning?” 

“ No. After the dinner. Why should Pehlen 
have given me such a tale as that? ” 

Frances hesitated. “ It is a long story, Mr. 
Fenn-Brook,” she said, finally. “ Perhaps ” 

Fenn-Brook pulled forward a chair for her. 

“Will you tell it to me?” he asked, gently. 

Frances began at the beginning. She told her 
story resolutely and clearly, though she wondered 
why her voice did not break. Fenn-Brook sat 
through the recital without moving and without 
taking his eyes from her own; but during it the 
boyishness faded from his face. “ — And so,” she 
ended, “ I came to you.” 

Fenn-Brook nodded. 

“ Don’t judge him too harshly,” Frances wist- 
fully resumed after a pause. “ You do not know 
my husband. His love for his country is like mor- 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 273 

phine to him. I knew that when I came. I knew 
it when I married him. It is my fault, not his, 
that we are here. I should have understood that 
he could not resist the temptation of his friends.” 

“ You think the trouble began only after you 
arrived?” he asked. 

“ I think,” she returned, resolutely, measuring 
her words, “ my husband never intentionally did 
a wrong nor told a lie. He feels that his ends are 
right; and — well, when he is working for them he 
forgets the untruth of what he says to me. That 
day in the Vosges Mountains, when he first sug- 
gested coming here — he believed the story he was 
telling. My husband would not deliberately de- 
ceive me, Mr. Fenn-Brook. His love is too deep 
for that.” 

Fenn-Brook rose and walked the room in 
thought. Once he broke out: 

“ Do you know you are very loyal? ” 

“ My husband needs loyalty,” she returned, 
simply. 

The walk was resumed. Finally he reached a 
decision, and halted before her with a very grave 
face. “ Countess,” he said, firmly, “ there is only 
one way in which I can help you; and that is to 
get you a passport for yourself. I can do noth- 


274 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

ing for your husband. He knows his risks and is 
the man to take them. And he would not avail 
himself of my help if I should offer it. The very 
mention of such a thing, I believe, would set him 
only the more firmly in his course. And that 
means that if you stay here, you, too, will be 
sacrificed.” 

She rose slowly to her feet. “ There is no other 
way ? ” 

“ No. There is no other way.” 

“ Then — if you are right — I must stay here 
with him.” At the door she hesitated. “ Did — 
did Count Pehlen tell you anything more? About 
their plans, I mean? ” 

“ No. But he is watching developments.” 

“ I know,” she responded. u He belongs to 
the police. But — you yourself — you will let mat- 
ters take their course? You will not speak of my 
husband’s presence here?” 

“ I have no information.” 

“ Thank you. It gives me a little more time to 
persuade my husband.” 

“ You will let me know in case you alter your 
decision?” he asked, anxiously. 

“ Yes,” she answered. “ But I cannot alter it.” 

When she had gone Fenn-Brook drew a cigar 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 275 

from his pocket and thoughtfully cut the 
end. 

“ Gad ! ” he muttered. “ She is grit to the bone. 
I would part with my right hand rather than see 
her stay here. And I cannot help it. I wish I 
had struck from the shoulder, with a few straight- 
forward facts about him. It might have per- 
suaded her. But, confound it ! I couldn’t talk to 
her like that — of her own husband.” 

He turned ruefully to his work. 

It was with a heavy heart that Frances made her 
way homeward. She had gone to Fenn-Brook 
through instinct, only vaguely feeling that he 
would find the way for her. But blind though the 
hope had been, its death was none the less cruel a 
disappointment. Throughout their preparations 
for coming to Warsaw, and ever since their ar- 
rival, an undercurrent of security, faint at times 
but still always positive, had made itself felt to 
her, in the knowledge that one friend was at hand 
upon whom she could rely in case of need. She 
neither blamed the Englishman nor failed to see 
the justice of his argument. From the outsider’s 
standpoint it had contained common sense. Even 
her own faith in Michael was gone, and against 


*76 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

the future she could place only his undoubted love 
and tenderness. Searching through the mists of 
trouble that enveloped her, Frances found a single 
ray of hope in the fact that her husband had never 
seen her in actual suffering. His devotion might 
respond to such a call, though on the lesser op- 
portunity it had failed. 

She found Michael at home. His eyes met hers 
with a feverish, worried expression and his face 
flushed. But he came forward quickly, as always 
when she entered the rooms, and kissed her. 
Frances gravely disengaged herself. 

“ Let us sit down, Michael. We must talk it 
over.” After a pause: “ Why did you do it? ” 
He attempted no denial. “ I could not have 
you know, dearest,” he returned, uneasily. “ It 

would have caused you pain, and ” 

“Was it all a lie, from the beginning?” she 
went on, in a monotone. “ Was all that story 
about the property false ? ” 

“No, no; it wasn’t, dearest. I swear it 
was ” 

Frances put out a restraining hand. 

“ Let us have the truth — only the truth — from 
now on, dear. Was it a lie? ” 

“ No. Or not that way. I — I had to come, 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 277 

dear heart. I did not mean to deceive you heart- 
lessly.” 

“Deceive me heartlessly!” she echoed, slowly. 
“ Michael, now that I do know, will you go ? ” 

“ I cannot,” he answered, with a sudden change 
to doggedness. 

She rose and put a hand upon his shoulder. 

“ Won’t you, Michael; not even for me? ” 

“ I cannot. I cannot,” he cried, stubbornly. 
And then, “ Ah, Frances, if you only knew what 
you are asking. You do not understand us Poles. 
We ” 

“ Then that, too, was a lie? ” 

“What dearest? I ” 

“ That you loved me more than your country? ” 
“No, no. It was not. I do. But — Frances! 
Please don’t look like that. I — you don’t know 
what we are to do. It is only for once ; one parting 
proof that we cannot be conquered, and then I am 
through. Listen.” 

The old fire of enthusiasm suddenly filled his 
eyes ! “ Listen. Do you think that I, Michael 

Zembec, could stand by and see that Cathedral, 
that monument to our subjugation, built by Rus- 
sians and dedicated by Russians without protest? 
That I can let them sing, there in the heart of 


278 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

Warsaw, their praise that my country has been 
conquered ? I ” 

Frances drew back, with horror bursting her 
veins. 

“ Michael! You are planning to destroy that 
church — during the consecration ceremonies ; while 
the Governor and the Russian officials are in it ! ” 

“ No, no, not that,” he exclaimed, hastily. “ It 
is not that. We shall not even permit its being 
dedicated.” 

“ I said, dear, I wanted the truth.” 

“ It is the truth, dearest. I would not lie to 
you,” he protested, vehemently. “ I ” 

She shook her head. 

“ I do not believe you, Michael.” 

“Frances! Dearest! You must not say that. 
It is true.” And then, in desperation: “I can 
prove it. I will. I will let you hear from the 
mouths of others what our plans are. There’s a 
meeting to-night — the last meeting — in the crypt 
of the Cathedral itself; where we have our final 
preparations to make. You shall go to that meet- 
ing, Frances, and get proof that your husband 
does not lie. If you are not satisfied, if you find 
that our ends are not what I claim, even, I will 
leave Warsaw with you to-morrow morning. I — 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 279 

Frances! I beg of you. You shall be the judge, 
the sole judge, yourself, dear ! ” 

A quick resolve shot into Frances’s white face. 

“ I will go,” she said, briefly. “ Yes, I will go. 
And, Michael, if I find there that you have failed 
me again, I shall leave you.” 

With a cry of joy he caught her numb form in 
his arms and covered her face with kisses. 

“ Then I am safe ! Safe beyond measure,” he 
cried. “ And ” — holding her at a distance and 
looking her straight in the eye — “ I solemnly 
promise you, Frances, that this will be the 
last.” 

In the tension of the moment Frances failed to 
realize that the whole plan was only a make-shift; 
that if what Michael said was true, not false, they 
were no nearer the end of their dilemma than be- 
fore. She was conscious only that she had won a 
partial victory. But when in the end the fabric 
of her delusion fell, Michael joyously refused to 
help her. 

“ Wait,” he insisted. “ You shall hear it all, tp- 
night, to-night at eleven o’clock. When it is to 
happen, what we have planned toward our escape 
— everything. And you shall be the judge as to 
all.” 


*8o PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

That unconscious extension of the terms cheered 
her a little. But suddenly the last, and still greater 
danger rose up before her. 

“ Michael,” she whispered, “ will Count 
Pehlen be at that meeting?” 

“ Yes. All of us.” 

She straightened herself, quickly. “ He must 
not.” 

“Why not, dearest? It is our last.” 

“ Because ” — she spoke very slowly — “ when 
Count Pehlen was here last night and told me of 
what you were doing, he also admitted that he was 
a member of the secret police.” 

The arm which was about her tightened to the 
hardness of iron. 

“ Pehlen said that — to you ! ” he demanded, 
tersely. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Why? ” 

“ Is it true, do you think? I have thought since 
that he was perhaps trying to frighten me. He 
hates you, Michael.” 

Zembec laughed harshly. “ Perhaps he does. 
But — why should he try to frighten you?” 

“ I don’t know ; it may have been my imagina- 
tion. I ” She broke off; with the thought 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 281 

that there had been enough emotion for the one 
day. 

“ Never mind, dearest,” returned her husband 
at length. “ I hardly believe it true. And even 
if it is, we can take measures to prevent his act- 
ing. But perhaps I should see some of my col- 
leagues about it before the meeting. I can find 
Wag — I can find one of them on duty now. He is 
working as a porter at the railroad station.” 

He fetched his hat and then kissed her. “ I — 
by the way, I have a letter for you. It was for- 
warded to the address I gave the maid before leav- 
ing Paris. I got it this morning. Good-bye, dear- 
est,” he said again, tenderly. “ And be brave of 
heart. There is not much more suspense for you 
to go through.” 

As he left the room the tears welled in Frances’s 
eyes. That quick recovery of his happy, care- 
less manner, after such a day, told her more of 
Michael Zembec’s character than she had ever 
known before. But she dashed them courageously 
away and turned to her letter. The cover brought 
an exclamation of pleased surprise to her lips. For 
it was addressed to “ Madame Ponachi,” in her 
brother’s hand. And inside were several pages 
of closely-written matter. 


a 82 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

The beginning brought another expression of 
pleasure, for it told her he regretted his tempestu- 
ous outburst, and intended thenceforth to write 
with the old regularity. Then followed an account 
of the journey out to Turkestan, and of the return 
to the old site. 

“ Our tents are pitched,” he wrote, “ on the 
same spot as before. We find little change, ex- 
cept that quite a bed of sand has drifted into some 
of the more open excavations on the northeastern 
side of the mounds. The men are cleaning them 
out now, and we expect within two or three days 
to take up the work where we left it. 

“ Yesterday, in digging just inside the long 
wall where we discovered the tablets, they came 
upon a man’s body and called me to see it. I fear 
we did poor Joseph an injustice when we decided 
he had absconded with the camp money. The 
body was his. The face was, of course, unrecog- 
nizable, but I had no trouble in identifying him 
by his clothes. And from between his ribs the 
handle of one of our own camp knives stuck out. 
I don’t see who could have done it, unless it was 
one of the Turkomans ; but I sent a report of the 
discovery to the police in Askhabad this morning.” 

Then followed other matter. But Frances did not 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 283 

read on. She saw clearly, where her brother had 
been blind. She harked back to that last night upon 
the sand-dunes, when Michael had refused to try to 
get Joseph’s passport He had had it in mind then, 
— and even before. His beard cut like Joseph’s, his 
clothes bought by Joseph; all had been maneuvered 
to that one end. And on that night, after that 
sacred scene in which they had said good-bye to one 
another, he had crept back to the tents; had driven 
that knife into the heart of the man who had 
loyally befriended him. And there had been glee 
in his soul as he was doing it! “ What we obtain 
from Russians we will wring, not buy.” How 
those words smote her, in the light of her present 
knowledge. And before, she had admired them, 
encouraged the enthusiasm which gave them birth ! 
The plan had been in his head as he uttered them; 
the cold-blooded murder of a faithful servant. 

She tried to deceive herself; to find some pallia- 
tion for him in the thought that he had done it 
in desperation, conscious only of the fact that he 
must return to his work in Poland. But the effort 
failed. She shuddered. And her love for Michael 
Zembec left her as the soul leaves the body. 

Mechanically her thoughts turned to the future ; 
not to-day’s or to-morrow’s, but to the future 


*8 4 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

years. She would not leave him. Having once 
committed herself, she would go on to the end. 
And that knowledge would always lie between 
them. She wondered how she could play her part; 
and came to the swift decision that he must never 
learn of her discovery. Alone she could face it, 
somehow. But for them to share the secret; for 
her to hear his weak, pleading defenses; for him 
to know that she would read his name and face 
into every crime chronicled in the morning papers 
— No, that would break her spirit. He must never 
know; never be conscious of the barrier that lay 
between them; never feel the poisonous daily dread 
of her contempt. 

She burned her brother’s letter as she had burned 
Fenn-Brook’s warning note, watching it turn to 
ashes with a dull sense of thankfulness that her 
husband had left before it was opened. Then, turn- 
ing the milestone, she began the career of decep- 
tion she had planned. She wrote an answer to 
Howard full of quiet assurances of her continued 
happiness; and smiled bitterly at the thought of 
the insignificance of the troubles which had kept 
her from writing two days before. Among other 
things she told him they should leave Warsaw the 
next morning. 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 285 

“ I must do it,” she exclaimed, resolutely, on 
reading the letter over. “ Even if I carry out my 
threat. He will not let me go alone.” 

For Frances had little hope of what that even- 
ing would bring forth. Despite all her efforts to 
suspend judgment, she knew she must be prepared 
for the worst. She merely begged from God the 
boon that it might not be so; that the last shred of 
confidence she had in her husband’s faith should 
not be torn away. But there was no trust in her 
heart that the prayer would be granted. She knew 
her husband now ; and knew that his proposal was 
only a striving for delay. 

Late in the afternoon she remembered her 
promise to Fenn-Brook and, more in a feverish 
unwillingness to be idle than anything else, wrote 
him, too, a hasty line. She told him their plans 
were changed; that both she and her husband 
would probably leave the city the next morning. 
“ At least,” she added, “ I shall know definitely 
to-night at eleven o’clock.” 

Then, having sealed and addressed both letters, 
she went for the last time to the Saxon Gardens. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


“1 ^ENN-BROOK received that note about six 
ji o’clock. It had been a bitter day for the 
Englishman. He felt that he had fallen 
short; that with the resources at his command he 
should have been able to find some means of help 
other than mere advice. And yet, argue as he 
would, he came always to the same point, that there 
was no way at all of forcing aid upon Michael 
Zembec if Zembec did not care for it. The con- 
tents of Frances’s note lightened his conscience. 
Or rather, his first glance at it did. Then he began 
to ponder upon that modifying sentence, that she 
would know positively at eleven o’clock. It was a 
very definite hour, and was an unusual hour 
for the formulation of plans. Finally he sent 
word to Van Schaick that he would like to talk 
with him. 

When the correspondent arrived, Fenn-Brook 
put the skeleton of the case fairly before him. Van 
Schaick listened in astonishment, and at the same 
time formulated a radical plan. 

286 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 287 

“ Let’s kidnap her,” he said, tersely, at the end. 

Fenn-Brook smiled. “ I had thought of that. 
But it would hardly do. We could never smuggle 
her out of the city. Otherwise, by Jove, I think I 
should be inclined to try it. But — I’m worried, 
Van Schaick, devilishly worried. Zembec is as 
crazy a fanatic as any howling dervish in the Sou- 
dan, and he might be up to almost anything. 
Now, something is going to happen to-night at 
eleven o’clock. It may be that Zembec is away and 
not coming back till then ; and it may mean that he 
is going to blow up the Governor-General, or any- 
thing else between those extremes. But we ought 
to find out, I think; for, whichever way we look at 
it, it may very easily mean that his wife will be in 
a scrape. Are you willing to play detective again? 
If so, keep an eye on her house for a few hours. 
I would do it myself but — Well, you see, as the 
British Consul here I am pretty well known. 
But I’ll keep open until twelve — or later if you 
think best — and be ready. It is not very far from 
here.” 

Van Schaick picked up his hat. 

“ I’ll go,” he said, briefly. “ Wait up until you 
hear from me.” 

They shook hands, warmly, and Van Schaick 


288 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 


left the Consulate. He dropped into a restaurant 
for a hurried supper, stopped at his own quarters 
to rid himself of such valuables as he had about 
him, and by eight o’clock was reconnoitering the 
ground in the neighborhood of the Swieto Janska. 

With sunset the noise and confusion in the Old 
Square had subsided. The foul meat shops that 
line its sides were shuttered and black. The hawk- 
ers had disappeared, leaving their unsold refuse 
on the ground behind them. The flat-faced, light- 
colored houses loomed gray in the shadow, with 
only here and there a candle twinkling behind their 
dirty panes. The whole vicinity was apparently 
dead. Only occasionally, as he paced to and fro 
in his watch of the outlet to the narrow street, 
some black figure slunk by him, or appeared hud- 
dled asleep against the projecting buttress of an old 
building. One fellow, with a consumptive cough, 
spat as Van Schaick passed him and then, with 
profuse apologies, wiped the other’s sleeve. A 
moment later Van Schaick discovered that his coat- 
pocket had been slit open. The incident amused 
him rather than otherwise; but lest the thing occur 
again, with more disastrous consequences, he finally 
took refuge in the ancient wine-shop near the 
corner, and continued his watch from there. 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 289 

Over the table at which he sat, close by the win- 
dow, Polish knights had probably gathered, two 
hundred and fifty years before, to drink their mead 
and discuss excitedly the war between the Swedes 
and Muscovites. Fukier, the proprietor, tried to sell 
him some mead from the same bottling of which 
those old knights had drunk. Had Van Schaick’s 
money escaped the gauntlet, first of his caution, 
then of thievery, he would probably have bought 
some, even at forty dollars per bottle. But with 
only loose change in his pocket he contented him- 
self with a newer vintage and conjured age into 
it — as every other stranger does who visits 
Fukier. 

Nevertheless he remembered what he was there 
for, and though, as the evening wore on, his vigil 
began to seem futile, he kept his eyes on the win- 
dow. About half-past ten he was rewarded; for 
Frances Ware and Michael stepped from the 
passage under the old galleon and turned down 
the street. He hastily paid his score and followed 
them. 

They skirted the Zamowski Square and at its 
farther end turned into the broad Senatorskaja, 
already alive with its nightly rush of carriages. 
They walked quietly, at the same rate as their 


2 9 o PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

fellow-pedestrians, of whom the streets were full. 
But shortly they turned into a narrow alley on the 
left and, cutting through it, came out upon the 
Square in front of the Saxon Gardens. Van 
Schaick, who until now had kept close behind them, 
halted. He saw them walk boldly by the two 
black-robed Cossacks who sit their horses there in 
silent guard of the entrance. Then they turned 
again to the right, toward the Alexander’s Cathe- 
dral, the great domes of which towered in oval- 
outlined shadow against the city-lighted sky. He 
hurried on in the same direction, but holding to 
his own side of the square, until he had passed the 
church, and again waited, standing in a rear door- 
way of the old Hotel de l’Europe. Frances and 
Michael did not reappear from behind the Cathe- 
dral, and Van Schaick cautiously began to circle it 
from the opposite direction. As he peered round 
the southeast corner, where the isolated tower 
stands, he saw the figure of a man bending over 
in the darkness, fumbling at a basement window, 
and next him a woman. Shortly the man disap- 
peared inside, and a minute or two later a base- 
ment door opened and, summoned by a low whistle, 
the woman stepped through it. Van Schaick hesi- 
tated as to what course to pursue next. But finally 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 291 

he quietly retraced his steps toward the hotel and 
then hurried off to Fenn-Brook. 

Meanwhile Michael Zembec was cautiously 
guiding his wife through the absolute darkness of 
the Cathedral’s vaults. With one hand on the 
wall, the other holding her icy fingers, he worked 
his way silently and surely along for what seemed 
to her an eternity. When his hand touched wood, 
he turned sharply to the left. 

“ The bins,” he whispered. “ Be careful not to 
kick any coals.” 

A moment later he released his hold upon her 
and, with another word of caution, slid forward 
alone. A dull ray of light flashed upon the dark- 
ness, projected into the passageway through an 
open door; and she heard him call softly. With 
teeth set she made her way toward his voice. 

Passing through the door she found herself in- 
side a room some sixty feet square. In one corner, 
on an upturned barrel, burned a single candle, 
barely lighting the space about it. The ceiling 
was low and unplastered. The walls were of 
rough yellow brick. Piled against them, and scat- 
tered over the floor, were piles of boards and 
bricks, the odds and ends left over from the work 
on a new building. 


292 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

Michael was the sole occupant. He put down a 
second candle which he was preparing to light as 
she entered, and, motioning toward the rear of the 
room, came to meet her. 

“ I must put you over there,” he said, in a low 
voice. He led her back into the semi-darkness and 
ensconced her behind a pile of lumber, with a nail 
keg as a seat. Then, raising the ends of half a 
dozen of the planks in front of her, he slipped a 
block under them. 

“ Can you see through that, dearest? ” he asked. 
“Are you comfortable? You must not get 
cramped and have to move, you know. There! 
I must get back before the others come.” He 
kissed her, with lips she knew were smiling, and 
returned to his corner. 

For five minutes she sat there motionless. Oc- 
casionally Michael looked over toward her and 
smiled. Suddenly he put his finger to his lips. A 
second man glided, like a dark shadow, into the 
room. He shook hands with Michael, then took 
off his coat and removed from about his waist a 
coil of thin wire or stiff cord; Frances did not 
know which. A second came ; and then a third, as 
silently. The latter was gingerly carrying a hand- 
satchel. He set it down in the middle of a clear 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 293 

space and wiped his brow, whereupon the others 
laughed, guardedly. Three more appeared. One 
of them was Pehlen, dressed in old clothes, and 
with his collar turned up. They sat about upon 
the piles of lumber near the candle-barrel, convers- 
ing in whispers which were unintelligible to her. 
Finally a seventh entered. As he approached the 
group Frances gave an involuntary start. He wore 
the blue jumper and the flat-visored cap of a rail- 
road porter. But she knew his face. He was the 
tall, round-shouldered man she had seen that last 
day in their Paris apartment. 

He had in his hand an irregular-shaped parcel 
done up in newspaper, which he laid on the barrel, 
together with a small book. One of the others 
looked up inquisitively as he saw this last, but the 
round-shouldered man refused to meet his eye. In- 
stead, he turned his back and, without greeting his 
comrades, sat down apart, letting his head fall for- 
ward in moody silence. As the eighth and last per- 
son entered a general rustle stirred the group. It 
needed but a glance at the newcomer to add the 
final drop to Frances’s bitter cup of humiliation; 
for she knew then that Michael, in his fanaticism, 
had descended even so low as to make his own 
wife a tool; that Maria Sobanska had come to this 


294 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

meeting in answer to her own innocent sum- 
mons. The young girl, still in the somber black 
and white garb of her Order, halted an instant near 
the door and let her handsome black eyes wander 
over the men. Wagner, the man of the round 
shoulders, motioned to her, and she took place by 
his side. A few whispered words passed between 
them, and Frances saw the young girl’s wilful, 
sensuous lips tighten suddenly and her face grow 
hard. Wagner walked forward and, undoing the 
parcel, cast away the paper and laid its contents 
on the barrel. Frances shuddered again as she 
recognized the object. It was a heavy black 
wooden cross, about fourteen inches long, with a 
gilded serpent twined round its cross-bar. 

He returned to his seat; and Maria Sobanska, 
amid a general movement as the others came to at- 
tention, stepped to the barrel. Standing beside it, 
with one hand resting lightly on the emblem, she 
began to speak. And as the words reached her, 
Frances knew that Michael’s plan had been turned 
into a miserable jest. The girl was speaking 
Polish. 

For a moment Frances flushed with hot resent- 
ment. But her sense of justice prevailed. She 
realized that Michael was no more to be blamed 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 295 

than she herself. In the excitement of the instant 
neither had thought of such a difficulty. Had it 
occurred to Michael afterwards, she knew, he 
would have made no mention of it; for to plunge 
ahead and let troubles take care of themselves had 
begun to seem the fundamental rule of his nature. 
But she could not deny him the merit of at least 
temporary sincerity. And now that she was here, 
there was nothing for it but to stay here until the 
futile thing was over. Leaning her head down 
upon the planks, she shut her eyes. 

But even had she been able to understand, her 
original purpose in coming to the meeting would 
have been defeated. For Maria Sobanska, sweep- 
ing aside the details Frances wished to learn, was 
dealing with an unexpected subject. 

“ We have work to do to-night,” she began, in 
a voice which, though soft and low-pitched, carried 
far — “ and we must hurry. But there is something 
else to do before we turn to either the discussion of 
our plans or the adjusting of the machine. The 
rules of this Society provide that no other business 
shall be taken up so long as ” 

“ No, no ! Not yet ! ” Michael Zembec was on 
his feet, speaking in a hoarse whisper. “Wait! 
I said ” 


2 9 6 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

“ So long as any charge of treachery is awaiting 
action. Such a charge has been made. It is 
against ” 

Zembec, forgetful of all save that he knew what 
would happen if that charge should be sustained; 
that, once made, he would have to press it, and 
that Frances was behind those boards to judge him, 
strove to drown the name; but Maria Sobanska 
inexorably raised her voice. 

“ Against Count Pehlen.” 

Blank faces gazed at one another. Pehlen was 
very white; but as he rose slowly to his feet his 
eyes gleamed maliciously. 

“Who makes it?” 

“ Zembec.” 

“ Ah ! Zembec. I presumed so. I can tell you 
the motive for his lie. He wants revenge. His 

wife ■” A contemptuous laugh issued from his 

lips and he shrugged his shoulders. “ His wife 
has been too good a friend to me. I imagine I 
need no other defense.” 

Michael’s hands clenched and his face grew pur- 
ple. A word framed itself upon his lips, but died 
away unheard. He shook himself, with a palpable 
effort, and turned quietly to Maria Sobanska. 

“ Wait.” 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 297 

He advanced slightly, and looked into the dark- 
ness beyond. 

“Frances!” 

And as his wife, awe-struck by the dignity, the 
love, the confidence, the quiet sorrow, that lay in 
his voice, rose from her hiding-place, not knowing 
what had happened, he met her. He took her 
by the hand, with a little pressure of encourage- 
ment, and led her back to his fellows. 

They were all on their feet now; six turbulent, 
angry men. Zembec waved them back. 

“ She is my wife,” he said, “ and in my confi- 
dence. I stand responsible. God knows I wish 
she were not here to-night! ” And then, turning 
to her, he spoke in French, gently, “ Frances, 
dearest, will you tell these men what Count Pehlen 
said to you of his relations to us.” 

She understood, and though her voice was so 
low as to be scarcely heard, she held loyally to her 
husband. 

“ He told me,” she answered, slowly, with her 
eyes on Maria Sobanska’s, “ he was a member of 
the secret police.” 

Pehlen sprang forward with a protest 

“ She lies. She ” 

But no other man moved. They had never 


298 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

known Zembec as he was acting now, in what, he 
felt, must be the last moments of his wife’s love 
for him. It was his behavior, far more than 
Frances’s words, that carried conviction home to 
his fellows. Soon two of them slipped behind Peh- 
len. Maria glanced from one face to another, 
without speaking; and was answered by tense, 
grave nods. She slowly took up the book that lay 
by the black cross and sought a certain page. 
Then she handed it, open, to the accused 
man. 

“ Will you please read? ” 

Pehlen, after a quick, uneasy glance behind him, 
laughed. “Certainly;” and, bowing to Frances, 
“ If it will afford pleasure to Madame.” 

It was the oath of the great conspiracy of 1823 ; 
the oath that in the days preliminary to the first 
Insurrection of Poland had been repeated by hun- 
dreds and hundreds of mouths, in cities and in 
hamlets, in hovels and in palaces; that by its very 
words had held secret the work of a nation. 

“ Standing in the Presence of Almighty God 
I swear and promise; That I shall use all my 
powers to help my beloved Fatherland; that I 
dedicate my goods and my life to the advancement 
of the cause of its freedom and independence. I 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 299 

swear to subject myself unconditionally to the laws 
of this Society; both those which have been and 
those which may be promulgated. I swear that I 
shall not hesitate to shed the blood either of 
traitors to the Society, or of any person whatsoever 
who stands between my country and its well-being. 
If the existence of the Society is betrayed to our 
enemies, or discovered by them through accident, 
I swear to part with life rather than disclose its 
secrets or name its members. 

“ And if I break this oath, sworn before Al- 
mighty God, may I be punished by a frightful 
death; may my name remain cursed unto the fur- 
thest generations ; may my body be thrown to wild 
beasts; to the end that, remembering the example 
of my fate, others shall not follow in my foot- 
steps. 

“ Thus I swear. And upon you, O shades of 
foregone patriots, Sholkewski, Czarnecki, Ponia- 
towski, Kosciusko, I call, to strengthen me with 
your courage, that I may keep this oath; to rejoice 
in my just punishment in case I fail ! ” 

Pehlen’s hand was shaking slightly, and his face 
was colorless. But he read to the end in. a cold, 
clear, unfaltering, defiant voice. When he had 
finished he closed the book quietly and laid it on 


3 oo PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

the barrel. With one hand lightly fingering the 
cross, he looked into Maria Sobanska’s eyes. 

Frances felt, rather than saw, the expressions 
on his hearers’ faces as he ceased, and then as they 
edged forward. She was conscious that Michael, 
standing motionless by the barrel, had his eyes 
fixed anxiously on her own. Suddenly Count Peh- 
len’s arm shot upwards. She saw the cross flash 
through her field of vision in a black and golden 
semi-circle; and its cross-beam crash against her 
husband’s head. Without raising his hand, with- 
out a groan, Michael Zembec went to the ground. 

For an instant the others failed to comprehend 
what had happened. Then with a low roar of 
anger they threw themselves upon his assailant. 
They went down, five or six of them, half covering 
Zembec’s body as they fell, and made a writhing, 
squirming heap at Frances’s feet. It was grim 
work, after that, with only the noise of panting 
breath and, from underneath, a gurgled plea for 
mercy. By and by one of the men rose and, with 
a frightened glance about him, slipped past Frances 
into the darkness. Then another; and another. 
Maria Sobanska was the last to go. Throughout 
the struggle she had stood motionless by the barrel. 
Now she stepped over Pehlen’s form, and knelt for 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 301 

one brief instant by Michael, with her hand upon 
his heart. Rising, she picked up the book and, 
without one glance at the other woman, vanished. 

Frances Ware was left alone, in the vaults of 
the great Cathedral, with the bodies of her hus- 
band and his enemy. 

She bent stiffly over Michael. He was lying on 
his side, with his arms bent under his body. Over 
his temple was a little pool of blood. She turned 
his head slightly, to allow the wound to drain, and 
gently felt along its edges with her fingers. The 
skull gave everywhere beneath her touch. She 
had known instinctively that he was dead, before 
she knelt by him. All that she did, she did me- 
chanically. She drew his arms out and felt his 
hands. She loosened his collar and shirt bosom, 
and felt his heart. She gently stroked back the 
hair upon his white brow. And then, numbly, she 
seated herself upon the floor and drew his head 
into her lap, and waited. 


CHAPTER XXV 


S HE was roused, she did not know how much 
later, by voices in the passageway, calling 
her name; and, ages afterwards, by Fenn- 
Brook’s touch upon her arm. 

“ Come, ,, he was saying, energetically. u I 
must get you out of this. Hurry ! Get up ! n 
“ My husband,” she answered, tonelessly. 

“ He is dead. Both are dead. We can do no 
good. My God, Countess, I — I beg of you ! ” 
He was desperate. “ Countess ! It will mean 
Siberia if they find you here. You must! ” 

They dragged her to her feet almost by force. 
Fenn-Brook holding her firmly by the wrist, Van 
Schaick going on before with a candle, they led her 
from the room and down the passage. At its end, 
the light was extinguished and Fenn-Brook, with 
a whispered word of caution, glided forward to 
reconnoiter. A moment later Van Schaick heard 
the low “ Wh’st ” that told him the road was clear. 
And Frances, numb and well-nigh helpless, passed 
out into the cold night air of the empty street. 


302 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 303 

At the corner Fenn-Brook halted and turned to 
Van Schaick. “ I’ll take her directly to the Con- 
sulate,” he hurriedly whispered, “ while you — I 
want you to go at once to the Hotel de l’Europe 
and ask for Lady Bloxham. Tell her, or send up a 
note in my name, that no matter how late it is, she 
and her husband must come over to the Consulate 
prepared to spend the night — that a woman in dis- 
tress needs her there.” 

Such was the story of Frances Ware. 

The next morning, Fenn-Brook, passing over 
the heads of all lesser authorities, sought an audi- 
ence with the Governor-General himself. After 
some delay he secured it; and, without circum- 
locution or evasion, told the highest official in 
Poland the story as he himself knew it. And in the 
end he demanded that Frances be given a safe- 
conduct out of the country. 

“ It will do you no good to refuse,” he said, 
bluntly. “ She is in the British Consulate now 
and, unless she can go without danger, I shall keep 
her there until — until Russia becomes a republic, by 
Jove! You cannot get at her, to acquire informa- 
tion or anything else. She is as ignorant of the 
whole plot as she is guiltless. Her only crime has 


3 o 4 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

been that she married a man before she knew him. 
I’ll promise, if you wish, that she shall never re- 
turn to Poland, upon the honor of the British 
Government. But, by gad, you know, I don’t 
think our navy would be strong enough to bring 
her back.” 

Though the Governor made more or less diffi- 
culty about it, Fenn-Brook refused to be denied. 
When he finally left the Palace he had the passport 
in his pocket. 

A week went by, nevertheless, before Frances 
could make use of it. She was utterly worn out, 
and Lady Bloxham insisted upon rest. Fenn- 
Brook moved his own sleeping quarters to the 
hotel, giving the two women the full run of his 
living rooms. During the period of her recovery 
he saw Frances only occasionally, for a few min- 
utes at a time, — no more was allowed him, — and 
in such short interviews as they held the subject 
of the past remained tacitly barred from their con- 
versation. He alluded to it only twice; once, on 
the first day, when he told her the bodies had been 
found that morning, but that the police had been 
unable to make any arrests; and later, when he 
spoke of Michael’s funeral. 

“ He was buried in the spot he himself would 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 305 

have chosen, I think,” he said, gently. “ It was in 
the graveyard next the old Election Plain, where 
they used to choose the Polish Kings and where the 
Diets were held. The Poles who fell fighting in 
’31 are there.” He did not tell her of the alter- 
native; that it was almost by physical force he had 
prevented Michael’s lying in the criminal cemetery, 
behind the Russian Citadel. 

Finally the day came for her to leave. Fenn- 
Brook accompanied her beyond the frontier. At 
Alexandrovo, he thrust her special passport be- 
neath the noses of the gendarmes, and they were 
allowed to pass the barriers without being sub- 
mitted to the usual tedious examination. And at 
last they entered Thorn and stood on German 
ground. Here they were to say good-bye. Fenn- 
Brook lingered until the guards came down the 
train, closing the doors of the carriages, and then 
held out his hand. 

“ Good-bye,” he said, simply. “ I wish I could 
go farther. But I’ve work to do. I — I have 
rather neglected it of late, you know.” 

“ Good-bye. We — we shall see each other 
again? ” 

Fenn-Brook smiled. “ We certainly shall.” 

He watched the train until it was lost among 


3 o 6 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

the freight engines and cars in the yard beyond. 
As he finally turned away he shook himself. “ By 
Jove, what a woman ! ” And, after a long, 
thoughtful pause : “ Now, don’t be a fool, my boy. 
She’s gone.” 

One night, a year later, Frances and her brother 
were sipping their after-dinner coffee together in 
the Professor’s study in their Cambridge house. 
Ware looked much as always, and Frances, too, 
exquisite in white, was the Frances Ware of old, 
except that she had perhaps acquired a slightly 
more matronly air and the few hardly noticeable 
lines which had crept into her face added to its 
natural gravity. Ware was telling her of the new 
grant he had obtained for his excavation work, 
when the maid brought in a card. Frances glanced 
at it and her cheeks flushed with pleasure and 
surprise. 

“Oh! It’s Mr. Fenn-Brook!” she exclaimed. 
“ Show him in here, Mary.” 

They received the Englishman warmly. But 
after the first words of greeting and the interroga- 
tions as to how he happened to be in America, in 
reply to which Fenn-Brook told them he had been 
appointed Consul-General in Boston, the conver- 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 307 

sation lagged. It was difficult to keep up pre- 
tenses when all their minds were centered upon a 
subject which the Wares were bound should be 
banished from Frances’s thoughts, and to which 
Fenn-Brook as resolutely refused to make the first 
allusion. Finally Ware excused himself to attend 
a weekly faculty meeting. When he and Frances 
were alone, Fenn-Brook plunged into the narration 
of some adventure or other he had once encoun- 
tered in Teheran, and talked desperately. But in 
the midst of his yarn he stopped short, and leaned 
earnestly toward her. 

“ Countess,” he said, abruptly, “ this is not what 
I came here for. I ” 

Frances raised her eyes with a grave smile. 

“ I do not use the title over here,” she said. 

“ I beg your pardon. Of course not. I should 
have known. But ” — he stood up and faced her. 
u I wish to tell you how I came to be appointed to 
Boston. I had to be. I sought the position — or 
any near-by post — to be where I could see you. 
No, please let me say it,” he insisted, firmly, as 
Frances tried to protest. “ I know. You have 
been through a strain, a terrible strain; and, you 
wouldn’t be the woman you are — the woman I 
wish to say this to — if you could get over it in 


3 o8 PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 

these few months. And it can only pain you to 
bring up all the old associations. I thought of 
that before I came here. I didn’t come here to 
ask you to marry me. It would be brutal to do 
that to-day. But I wish to be free to see you with- 
out travelling under false colors. I want your 
permission to watch you, so that I can tell when I 
may speak, instead of waiting blindfolded as I 
should have, had I remained in Europe. And I 
want you to know, to feel every day, that I am 
waiting, though I don’t care how long I must wait. 
I — by Jove, you know I’m — I’m making an awful 
mess of it. But ” 

Frances rose slowly from her chair and held out 
both her hands to him. 

“ My dear friend,” she said, gently. 

He took the proffered hands and held them for 
an instant in his own, while his keen blue eyes 
earnestly searched her face. Then he broke into 
a jolly, boyish laugh. 

“ I say, you are a sensible woman. That is the 
best answer you could have given me.” 

Note. — The Alexander’s Cathedral, which has 
been represented in this volume as ready for con- 
secration, is not yet entirely completed; the work 


PLOTTING OF FRANCES WARE 309 

upon it having been interrupted by the breaking 
out, first of the war with Japan, then of the Reign 
of Terror. Only the interior, however, remains 
unfinished. The structure is constantly guarded 
by Cossacks, to prevent its destruction by the Poles. 


I 





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